


Freefall

by Anon_E_Miss



Series: Shattered [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Shit I Can't List Because Spoilers, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: The unthinkable has happened. As Smokescreen and Prowl struggle to come terms with the idea that Bluestreak is gone, that beloved mechling is forced into the Arena, and into the care of Ironhide. All the while Barricade weaves a hideous plot to finally take the mech he has been obsessed with for vorns. Will Prowl and Smokescreen realize Bluestreak is alive before all is lost? How will Bluestreak possibly survive with the Terror Twins as roommates?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

“Shut it you pathetic little piece of scrap!” Barricade snarled as he hit the youngling hard enough to knock him off his peds. Bluestreak fell to the floor, only centimetres from Crunch’s greyed frame, he cried again as he saw where he had landed. He scrambled away from his murdered guardian, and wretched violently.

 

“How dare you!” Windbreak hissed as he stood up from his chair. He recoiled, as did his kin, when Crunch’s murderer raised his blaster on them.

 

“This is all on you, Windbreaker,” the Decepticon said, because the terrified youngling knew exactly what that purple brand meant. “You’re a corrupt piece of slag, too bad Prowl never found you out, or none of this would be happening. I’m really glad he didn’t.”

 

“They’re ready for you,” a white, black, and red Seeker interrupted, as he stepped forward. Bluestreak tried to crawl away from the approaching Seeker, only to be lifted into the air by his doorwing. He cried out from pain.

 

“Pathetic,” Barricade sneered as he turned the youngling to face him. “Where’d you come from, h’uh? Your origin has some real ball bearings, you got scrap. Take him with you, Ramjet. He’s gonna watch the show.”

 

“Hey! My trine’s not here to sparkling sit!” Ramjet complained, but he recoiled when the mech that had sired Bluestreak turned his optics on him.

 

“You’re here to do what I say,” the Praxian countered, and he tossed Bluestreak to the floor at the Seeker’s peds. The youngling reached over his shoulder to touch his aching doorwing.

 

“Get up ya little pest,” the Seeker ordered. Two more Seekers stepped forward. One was predominately red, the other blue. They shared Ramjet’s cone-head design. According to what he had learned in school, their design meant that they were from a lower caste of Seeker, typically serving as labourer mech or common soldiers. Lots of mechanisms from castes like their across Cybertron had joined the Decepticons early on, back when it had been a grassroots revolutionary party, when it had stood for something good.

 

Bluestreak obeyed. He looked desperately at his originator’s kin. Streetstar looked away, and that may have been the worst betrayal of all because Streetstar was an Enforcer, just has the youngling’s originator had been. Slowly, optics pleading with each step, Bluestreak made his way over to the Seekers. Not one of the adult Praxians spoke up, none moved even a fraction of a millimetre. Barricade would have killed them if they tried, that was almost certain. This knowledge did not mean the terrified youngling felt any less betrayed. There was no hesitation, each one of these mechs, mechs who were his kin were selling him out to save their own plating. Tears pooled in his optics, and he willed them not to fall. His spark reached out for his origin’s, but he was too far a way for youngling to more than just vaguely sense.

 

“Keep your optics on the sky,” Barricade ordered the Seeker trine. “Everything is going according to plan. Don’t frag this up.”

 

What was the plan? The young Praxian’s processor raced. It could be nothing good, it could only be bad, only be terrible. His originator had said Praxus was not an island. He had been right, but that was not really surprising. Surely it would have made more sense to attack Iacon, even the Crystal City. Praxus had always been Neutral, focused on technology and art. It had been the Crystal City that had built up its wealth on the max of the miners and gladiators of Kaon and Tarn, at least according to his history teacher. It had been Iacon that had gathered around old Primes and new, and kept the status quo. Why Praxus? Though Barricade had come to the ziggurat, specifically with the youngling’s origin in processor that would not have been Megatron’s motivation for attacking the city. Maybe it was just madness, Bluestreak certainly felt as though the world was going mad around him, and he had no way to escape it.

 

When the Seekers led the young Praxian back out of the ziggurat, it was as still and quiet as before. Had Decepticons invaded other compounds? Had they invaded the Assembly? This was nothing like the newsfeeds Bluestreak had watched of the fighting in Rodion. No, the silence of Praxus felt even more ominous. Before the youngling could even consider running off, of find a place to hide, the blue and black Seeker grabbed him under the arms and launched into the air. Bluestreak screamed, full of shock and terror. Below him, the streets and compounds remained dark and still, and his screams lodged in his vocalizer. He shuttered his optics. The air currents stung his plating, especially his doorwings. His frametype was not meant to be so high, or to move so fast.

 

“What, ya don’t want to learn how to fly?” The Seeker asked, a cruel lilt to his voice. The next thing Bluestreak knew he was falling free. He shrieked, certain he was about to die, only to be caught by the servo by the one called Ramjet.

 

“Dirge, have you glitched?” Ramjet shouted. Bluestreak dug his digits into the Seekers arm. “Barricade will slag me, if you splattered his bastard all over the ground. And if I’m getting slagged, I’m taking you down first!”

 

“Just a joke, Ramjet,” Dirge cackled. “Did you see his face?”

 

“You’re a real stupid fragger, Dirge,” the red Seeker replied, in a severe tone, before letting out a barking laugh. “But that was pretty funny.”

 

Bluestreak felt Ramjet dive, flying lower and lower. When they were only a few metre from the ground, he was dropped. The youngling touched his crest to the ground, his whole frame shaking. He barely heard the Seekers scoff over the ringing of his audials. Even if he had wanted to, Bluestreak did not think he could speak. They left him be, thank Primus for that one reprieve. As the shock faded, Bluestreak lifted his helm. Where had they taken him? Slowly, he looked around and, he saw more Decepticons, most of them Seekers, pacing with fields filled with impatience. What were they waiting for? A part of Bluestreak hoped it would happen soon, but the larger part was terrified of what that might be.

 

They were at the edge of Praxus, Bluestreak realized. He could see the generators that fed the iridescent dome that acted as a beautiful, but powerful shield to protect the Praxus’ citizens from any danger. Praxus was not only a city-state devoted to the arts, but one devoted to technological innovation. Bluestreak’s teachers had bragged that Praxus only used its genius for defence and the pursuit of health, comfort and beauty, but when the youngling had shared this lesson with his originator, Prowl had corrected Bluestreak. Praxus had developed many weapons over the vorns, some of which it had sold to other states, some it kept for its own defence. But the government chose not to to share this with the population, as it was a slap to the face of everything the Praxian’s believed it, but also to keep outsiders from learning the truther, and calling the city-states claims of Neutrality into question. Bluestreak had not needed to be told to keep this information to himself.

 

The dome remained, but it had failed to keep these Decepticons out. Maybe Bluestreak’s progenitor had shown them the way, certainly he had known, because he had been banished but had still somehow returned. Barricade was dangerous, origin had always said, and the youngling was more inclined to believe him than ever before. His originator had not been inclined to talk much about it, and had Bluestreak thought it had only been his origin’s desire to protect him, the youngling would probably have pleaded his case. But when Barricade had ever been mentioned, his originator had seemed to freeze. It was not that he had stopped talking, or moving, or had literally became frozen in place, but an inscrutable mask had always gone up, his optics emptied of all emotion. This was a signal Bluestreak knew meant his originator was distressed, and the young mech had always done is best to never upset his origin unnecessarily. Tears spilled from Bluestreak’s optics as he remember just how dangerous the mech who had sired him was. Crunch was dead, dead because he stood up for the youngling. Grief spilled over and Bluestreak buried his face in his servos and quietly wept for the mech, and for himself.

 

“Sit over there,” Ramjet ordered, as he pointed to a nondescript crate a few steps away. “Try and run and I’ll shoot out your legs. Don’t thank your ‘genitor would mind much, do you?”

 

He would not. As long as Bluestreak survived Barricade would have his bait, and that idea was terrifying. Oh yes, he was afraid for himself, he was beyond scared, but the youngling feared for his originator more. Barricade had hurt him, and Bluestreak knew how much, though he had not been meant to. Bluestreak had overheard his origin have terrible memory purges, had heard him beg. The lust he had seen in the mech’s optics before Barricade had realized Prowl had not been present only confirmed the young mech’s deepest held fears for his origin, and his own conception. As much as the young mech wanted his origin to save him, he could not bare the thought of Barricade getting his servos on Prowl. If he did, it would be Bluestreak’s fault.

 

At some point, the youngling drifted off into a fitful recharge, helm resting against the crate. A ped kicked his chassis, startling him awake. Ramjet’s dark red optics glowed down at him. Before Bluestreak could shuffle away, the Seeker caught the edge of his chassis plating and hauled him up. Above him, Alpha Centaurii was rising. It was light-cycle. There was an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation as the fields of the gathered Decepticons as they wove together to create an ominous miasma. Optics dimmed as they adjusted to the light, Bluestreak looked around. Everyone appeared to be moving towards the gates. With a hard yank, the evil Seeker dragged the young Praxian along, over several blocks, until they arrived at one of the archways that allowed mechanisms in and out of Praxus’ dome. There was an a mech standing guard, a Praxian mech in milita colours. To the kidnapped youngling’s despair, the guard lowered the shield within the archway, and allowed them through. Bluestreak stared at the mech in surprise and horror. A bolt of recognition struck him, and he realized that this guard was a fraud, or at the very least corrupt. Now Bluestreak understood how the Decepticons had gotten through the dome and into Praxus, they had been welcomed inside. All these stellar-cycles later, the youngling still recognized the guard; he was one of Barricade’s lackeys. The mech had been present when Smokescreen had taken Bluestreak, still only a sparkling to meet their progenitor in that underground arena.

 

Ramjet did not acknowledge the treacherous guard as he dragged the youngling through the archway, and further east. Whenever Bluestreak balked, Ramjet shoved or wrenched him along. The outlands of Praxus were empty and still. There should have been convoys bringing their hauls along the highway, but there was not a spark in sight, save for the Depecticon rabble. Ahead of them, a great bridge loomed, spanning a canyon that cut through the planet. A river of energon ran through it. Briefty, terrified Praxian wondered if he could dive off the bridge, dive into the energon, could he swim away? Of course not, the Seekers would pull him out. Before Bluestreak could decide whether or not the faint hope was worth the crazy risk, Ramjet shoved him towards, not towards the bridge but off to the side of it. He understood why in a klik. Hidden in the canyon, bellow the bridge, was a troop carrier. The youngling desperately did not want to go on that thing, did not want to go anywhere with these evil mechanisms, but it was clear, oh so clear that he had no choice. Plating clattering, the young mech walked on board. Bluestreak was not forced into a chair, or stashed in the cargo hold, or even locked in a cage. To the mechling’s confusion, he was marched onto the bridge. Ramjet stood behind him, servos digging into the youngling’s shoulders, and the transport took off.

 

It rose into the air, higher and higher. Bluestreak’s spark sank as he felt the transport turn away from Praxus and fly on. He shivered under the Seeker’s grip, and tears spilled down his cheekplates. Why was this happening, what was happening? None of this made, and it made even less sense that Ramjet would not let him move even a fraction of a centimetre, would not let him curl up in a corner, out of the way. They followed the canyon south, flying dangerously low. At any instant, Bluestreak was certain they were going to crash in the side of the canyon, and burn or drown in the river bellow. His tank clenched as a wave of vertigo swept over him as they took a particularly tight turn, and then climbed sharply. For a moment there was a very real risk that the was going to purge. Confusion brought a frown to the youngling faceplates as he saw Praxus through the window. They had circled about to the southern edge of the city, but why? Bluestreak was further confused, and even more troubled as he realize that he was looking at the ziggurats, pyramids and pillars of Praxus unhindered by the dome.

 

“Now you’re gonna have a real reason to cry,” Ramjet declared, as he leaned over Bluestreak’s shoulder. The youngling tensed, his doorwing arched up, and he tried to look away, whatever was about to happen, it could only be terrible. He cried in pain as the Seeker wrenched him by his chevron and forced him to look. Bluestreak only had a nanoklik to wonder why when three enormous beams of light came from suddenly the east, and struck the unguarded city. A great mushroom cloud rose up, and the shockwave shook the troop carrier. Ramject released his hold on the mechling’s chevron, and the young mech fell to the floor, as a sharp wail tore from his vocalizer. Around him, Decepticons cheered and hooted. His screams never ended, not even as his vocalizer grew hoarse, not even as the Decepticons snarled and sneered. It would be a long time before stop screaming.

 

***

 

Prowl woke to the world being ripped from beneath his peds. His spark felt as though it was being shredded as millions of threads were torn loose from his spark. Jazz spoke in a harsh, horrified tone to the right of him on the berth, but the Praxian could not make out the glyphs. He knew nothing but pain. Something terrible had happened in Praxus. Bluestreak... Bluestreak. No, oh no, how could he bare it, how could he be expected to bare it? The originator pushed himself up from the berth and threw himself forward, as if to runaway from the agony ripping him apart. Instead he fell his knees. It felt like he was dying, like in the very next instant his spark would implode from the strain. Intake’s flared wide, Prowl pressed his helm against the floor as he ventilated in ragged gasps.

"Prowl?" Jazz asked. Distantly, the Praxian felt himself being pulled into the other mech’s arms. He was shaking he realized, but he was powerless to stop it. After what felt like eons, the tremors faded and he weakly turned his helm and hit his face against the saboteur’s shoulder. Eventually, Prowl was able to pull himself above the pain, and Jazz spoke again. "It's bad, Prowl."

"I know," he said. He already knew every one of his kin was gone. No, that was wrong, Smokescreen lived and his spark was screaming in pain alongside Prowl’s.

“Optimus is callin’ all commanders in, includin’ me,” the Polihexian explained.

 

“I am coming,” Prowl said, and slowly he pulled away from Jazz, and tried to stand on shaking legs.

 

“Prowler, you aren’t in any state to meet with generals,” Jazz replied.

 

“I don’t want to see them,” the tactician countered. Through the agony, his processor struggled to work. Mentally he stared at the medical block Ratchet had placed on his tactical systems, it seemed impossible to dismantle. “I cannot be here. Jazz. I cannot. I need to see.”

 

“Okay,” the saboteur said, and the Praxian’s tattered spark felt a brief surge of relief and gratitude. “Ratchet’ll slag me, but okay. I’ll take you to tactics.”

 

For the first time in his life, Prowl sped. He had never been involved in high speed chases in Praxus so even in duty, the former Enforcer had never been compelled to break speed limits. There was no logic to breaking those laws now. Whatever horror had happened in Praxus, he was far too late to make any difference, but logic was the farthest thing from his processor. It was too much, the terror, and the grief, and that desperate and impossible hope. A crash loomed but Prowl fought it off by diverting coolant from his engine to his processor. The stop gap worked, but it would only do so for so long. The Vanguard stepped out of the way as Jazz and Prowl drove through the checkpoints. Autobots were either frantically running to their posts, or cluster together in the common grounds watching some newsfeed or another on small workstations. Prowl did not look at them, or at the Primal Vanguard that had amassed at the checkpoints, and at the Palace’s towering doors. He transformed at the steps, and ran into the Palace, Jazz only a half step behind him, and he only stopped when he was face to face with the door to the tactical department. Over his shoulder he looked at Jazz, who watched him with confusion and concern.

 

“I will be here,” Prowl said. “When you have received your orders.”

 

He went inside, turning his back on Jazz, avoiding whatever argument the Polihexian would feel compelled to make. A newsfeed airing in real time was projected on the massive holo imager that served as the rooms vocal point. The tactical mechanisms on duty turned from the newsfeed to stare at him. Prowl ignored them all, and slowly walked up to the imager, and stared at screen captures cycling over the screen. It was worse than he could ever have imagined, ever have feared. Praxus was gone. His home city-state had not merely been razed, it had been eradicated, leaving a gaping wound in the planet’s surface. That desperate hope Prowl had been unconsciously clinging to was ripped away, and his helm spun. Pain throbbed behind his optics in time with his spark. His legs threatened to give out, and he dug his digits into the table at his hip, and held himself upright.

 

“Get out,” he ordered, without looking at the assembled tactical bots. He heard them murmur, heard their plating rustle.

 

“Sir,” a deep voice spoked. It took a nanoklik for Prowl to attach the designation Trailbreaker to the voice.

 

“Get. Out,” Prowl repeated. His voice sounded cold and dead to his own audials. The truth was the tactician felt as though he was burning alive. “All of you. Out.”

 

They left, ushered out by that self-conscious Tagonian. As soon as the door closed behind Trailbreaker, Prowl fell to the floor. His ventilations came in harsh rasps, and he pushed his chevron against the cool metal of the tactical hub. The cold surface did nothing to cool the tactician’s overheating processor. Blindly he felt for the imager’s remote, and when his sluggish digits found it, they almost dropped it. Holding the remote with both servos, Prowl changed the newsfeed to another channel. A recording from a satellite showed Praxus under the dawning light, whole. It took the Praxian a full klik to realize that the dome meant to shield the city-state from any threats was down. He forced himself onto his knees, and then his peds, and took a single step closer to the screen, he needed to understand. Without warning, three beams of murderous light struck Praxus, carving and searing the city-state from Cybertron’s side. Prowl fell back, fell against the hub, and onto the floor.

 

A gasp of pain broke from his vocalizer as his doorwings were jarred by the impact. Vision narrowing at the edges, the tactician dragged himself up, using the tactical hub for support. With quick digits he access the datapase where the satellite’s recordings were stored, and uploaded them onto the hub. As soon as it had uploaded, Prowl searched out every spy satellite orbiting over Praxus and downloaded their feeds as well. When he had gathered all that he could, Prowl projected them onto the imager, and watched. From every angle, he watched Praxus’s destruction. As his joints audibly squealed as coolant drained away from his limbs and into his primary systems, the tactician stared at the screen. Praxus’s destruction repeated itself one more time before his optics when dark, and something gave within his helm. Darkness reached up and, finally he crashed.

 

Everything hurt. Before his processor had finished booting, Prowl knew he had crashed; he had no need for the self-diagnostic reports or error messages. As his higher functions returned, the tactician realized he was not alone. Servos were running frantically over his chassis and helm as the young mech’s field flared erratically full of hideous grief, and desperate fear. Prowl reached, and caught Smokescreen’s servo as it passed over his chassis. A sound, a broken sob met the originator’s audials, and he forced himself up. His creation buried his face in Prowl’s shoulder and fell apart. Smokescreen’s plating clattered, and his frame shook as he wailed with despair.

 

Though his ventilations were ragged, the originator could make no other sound. Tears did not come, despite what he had seen, despite what he knew, all Prowl could do was hold his surviving creation tight. His grief was Prowl’s, and it was overwhelming. At any moment, the Praxian thought his spark would implode under the strain. He cringed violently when he caught sight of the imager replaying Praxus’ destruction yet again. On reflex, he shielded this creation for the horrible images as he searched for the remote as best he could without letting go of Smokescreen. When Prowl could not find the offending controller, he reached up and fumbled around the hub until he found a kill switch and shut the tactical station down. Smokescreen’s shaking slowed, and his vocalizer clicked on and off as he cried himself hoarse, through it all, Prowl held him. He could not imagine letting go.

 

“He shouldn’t have been there,” Smokescreen whispered, his voice just a rasp.

 

“I know,” Prowl said. He should have hired that transport. Primus, he should have defied Ratchet and collected his youngling.

 

“Why did you leave him?” The grief stricken mech asked, voice cutting out mid sentence. “You left him.”

 

“I did... I did,” the originator struggled to process the glyphs, to process the guilt. “I thought he was safe. He should have been safe.”

 

“You must wish it was me and not Blue,” Smokescreen said, and Prowl hugged him with crushing force, horrified by what he had heard.

 

“I could never have been made to choose between you,” he countered. “No one could have made me choose.”

 

“It feels like he’s still alive,” his creation cried. “I know he’s not, he can’t be, but it feels like he’s still there.”

 

Prowl realized in that instant that he felt the same. Though his spark was shredded by dozens of broken bonds, his creation bond to his second-emerged remain. He reached for it, but shied as he felt only agony. A raw moan ripped from his vocalizer, and Smokescreen held him tighter. His elder creation’s tears streaked Prowl’s chassis plating, but despite the agony, the tactician had no tears, and sick guilt wove its way into his spark, and festered. They remained here, half sitting, half laying on the floor of the tactical department together, paralyzed with despair and shock. As the kliks and then breams slowly passed, Prowl waited for the bond to Bluestreak to tear away, to either free his tears or to kill him. But as those kliks passed, the originator’s spark remained stubbornly whole.

 

***

 

It seemed surreal. There had been horrors, the Shadowplay in Rodion being one of the worst to date, but nothing could compare to the destruction of Praxus. Seizing control of Rodion made sense enough, Megatron wanted to take control of Cybertron after all, and had the Shadowplay worked as planned, he would have had Prime under his control, through him the Autobots, the Senate, and Cybertron itself in only another couple of orns. This, this wanton destruction made no sense. What could be gain by destroying the technological giant? So far s Jazz could guess, the Decepticons had not had enough time to raid the archives, or the manufacturers so they could not have run back to Darkmount with any spoils. So why? Why Praxus? The Special Ops commander needed the answer, was all but hounded for it by the generals, but the fact was, Jazz knew no more than they did, precisely squat.

 

Where was Mirage? He had not been in Polihex for that long, an orn, but for a mech with his skills and his abilities that should have been enough time to figure out that the Decepticons had a fragging cannon big enough to take out an entire city-state, it seemed like a rather large thing to miss. Jazz cursed himself from not returning to Polihex, for trusting another mech with such an important mission. It was hindsight for certain, but it was impossible not to blame himself. Special Operations was all about information, and the fact that the saboteur had none felt like the greatest failure of his entire function, and as sick as he was about it, Jazz knew it was a million times worse for Prowl. They had been there, they had been in Polihex, but they had not noticed something so terrible was brewing. He and Smokescreen, they had lost everything. For Prowl it may even have been that much worse, because he had been Praefectus Vigilum, he had been in charge of the safety of Praxus for vorns, and only orns after he had left the job, his city, and all the lives he had safeguarded were lost.

 

Just where the frag was Mirage? In between briefings, strategy sessions, interrogations, and pure chaos, Jazz tried to reach his friend, but to no avail. The Towers mech’s every comm line was silent, and he did not even answer Hound’s hails. Jazz could not believe, would not believe that Mirage was dead. Though if he lived... there were so many ugly questions. There had to be another explanation, there had to be. If Mirage was dead, Arcee would be on the warpath, not necessarily because her creation had been killed but because it was a matter of principle. Hound was scared, more scared than the Polihexian was when it came to Mirage’s safekeeping, and at some point Jazz would feel guilty for that. The scout did not believe his former heres would have been out of contact after such a hideous turn of events, and he did not believe Mirage would have been silent if he had known that such a terrible thing was going to happen. It turned out Jazz had less faith in his friend’s loyalties than he had thought, and it made the saboteur question everything. If Mirage had known, if he had let it happen, how could they go forward? How could Jazz let him live?

 

“The first rescue teams will be departing for Praxus in a joor,” Optimus informed the gathered officers. “Primal Vanguards have diverted from the action in Rodion to offer aid, and to prevent any looting. First reports such there are no survivors.”

 

“But we’re checking, right?” Ratchet demanded. He was not an officer, not yet though that would come soon, he was not officially an Autobot again but Jazz already knew, without needing to be told, that the medic would be leading all triage efforts.”

 

“Yes, we are,” the Prime said. “The sewers run deep under Praxus, if the Praxian’s had any warning this was coming, some may have taken shelter, and may yet be trapped.”

 

Jazz did not need to be told whether or not he was assigned to a team, he would be going to Praxus, and he would be on the first transport. He waited in the back of the room for the briefing to be dismissed, and once it was he waited for the other officers to leave. Ratchet remained next to Optimus, even after everyone else had gone, that did not bother the saboteur, however. The Polihexian pushed off the wall, and stalked forward. His mood was foul, his spark twisted with guilt and hate. His loyalty to the Autobots had been questioned, his fitness for his rank and command had been as well. These same mechanisms that had casually tossed the Special Ops commander’s agents onto fronts to shore up their numbers questions why he had not ensured he had operatives in Polihex, and in Kaon, as if he had not begged for more rookies, begged for transfers, begged for anything that could help him build up the numbers he needed to fill the holes Soundwave had cut into Autobot Ops.

 

“I’m goin’,” he said, arms crossed he stared up at the Prime, openly defiant.

 

“I thought you would want to be,” Optimus replied. “I know you’ve always done your best, Jazz.”

 

“My best wasn’t enough,” Jazz hissed. “’N millions o’ mech are dead, includin’ Prowl’s younglin’ because I didn’t fraggin’ know the ‘Cons were buildin’ that thing in my own home province. I didn’t see it, frag it all, when I was in Polihex one fraggin’ orn ago. I didn’t take the time to see.”

 

“You were in no state,” Ratchet argued. “Before you beat yourself to death over this, I was in Polihex for vorns. I never saw anything, and ya I was looking at Darkmount, Jazz.”

 

“Have you seen, Prowl?” the Prime asked.

 

“He came here with me,” the saboteur replied. The mechs standing in front of him recoiled with disbelief. “He wasn’t stayin’ home, ain’t somethin’ he could do. Hound heard from ‘Breaker, Prowl cleared the office, Hound spotted Smokey headin’ in a while later, ‘n he’s guardin’ the door to make sure they’re left in peace.”

 

“This is a loss like neither of them could ever have imagined,” the medic said. “None of us have experienced it... Jazz, you’re just about the closest. They aren’t going to be in good shape... With Prowl’s particular difficulties, I’d recommend he remain on medical leave for the foreseeable future, and Smokescreen needs to be on compassionate leave too.”

 

“Prowl’s gonna fight you,” Jazz cautioned. “Smokey might too, I don’t know. But Prowl I know ain’t gonna wanna sit back as you wait to see if he’s gonna glitch.”

 

“What do you suggest?” Ratchet asked, a little peeked. The Polihexian shrugged.

 

“I ain’t suggestin’ anythin’,” he replied. “I don’t think either mech should see duty for a while, they’re gonna need time, but I don’t think Prowl’s gonna want it.”

 

“Encourage him to return to his habsuite,” the Matrix-Bearer said. “Before we fly for Praxus. It would be best, I think if they weren’t under a microscope. Everybot here will be watching them... It can’t be helped.”

 

“Ya, I will,” the Polihexian agreed. “At least of Smokey, I can probably get’m to go.”

 

He already knew that Prowl was going to want to go to Praxus, and Jazz knew only Smokescreen’s presence might deter him from going, whatever Ratchet or anybot thought was best. Jazz did not want the tactician to go. Those holovids and image captures circulating over the datanet would be enough. They would be burned in all their processors, but especially Prowl’s. Strategist that he was, the Praxian would be going over every angle, would be dissecting every grainy still, he probably already had. That would be enough, more than enough for one mech to suffer. The scent of death, the deathly silence of a massacred city, of his massacred city, Jazz could not justify allowing Prowl to force himself through it. Guilt might compel the mech to do it, but the saboteur was determined to look out for him, and he just hoped that Prowl would let him.

 

End Chapter 1.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint.  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Since Bluestreak had learned of his originator’s decision to relocate to Iacon, the youngling had been imagining what it would be like to see a new city-state. In his geography class, he had seen pictures of all the city-states and provinces, but image captures were hardly the same as being there in the moment. Bluestreak had been so excited to move to Iacon. What would it smell like? what would it sound like? Surely it would be different than Praxus. The vicomagister had always said how superior Praxus was to the other city-states, even superior to the Crystal Cities. Their dazzling architecture, the globes, skyscrapers, and zigguarts were all superior to the sterile shine of the famous Towers, the shades of blues, and platinum far superior to the gaudy golds of Iacon. No music, no sustenance could match that of Praxus. But Praxus was dead, the vicomagister, their kin, his friends, everyone but Prowl and Smokescreen, everyone was gone. The image of that moment, of the moment those three missiles had stuck was forever circling in his processor. The youngling wondered if he would forget how Praxus had smelt, how the Helix Garden had sounded. Would he forget what it looked like, except for in that final moment?  
  
Tarn was dark, covered in a thick black haze that only made the purple energon crystals used to light the centre of the city-state in an eerie, demonic glow. It smelt like industry, of oil, and of death. Bluestreak shivered, his plating clattered, though it was not cold, and his progenitor cuffed the back of his helm for this offense. The youngling cringed away. His helm already hurt, as did his back and chassis. When he had not stopped screaming, when he had not been able to stop screaming after watching the murder of his homeland, Barricade had beaten him into a too brief stasis. He had hoped so, so desperately that his origin would have been there when he had woken, come from Iacon to save him. But his origin was not where to be seen, and Bluestreak’s spark hurt so badly, hurt so, so badly from all the shattered links and loss that he could not even reach out and take comfort in the steady, though distance thrum of his origin’s spark, could not even feel it over all of the agony.  
  
For the first time in his life Bluestreak felt alone. His origin was so far away, as was his brother. There was no comfort in Barricade’s presence, and there was not meant to be. The youngling tried, really he tried not to shiver, or whimper, but it was impossible to keep fully silent, and he took three more knocks to the helm before they reached their destination. It was so much more terrifying than the image captures Bluestreak had seen in school. That most infamous of gladiatorial arenas, the Arena towered over its neighbouring buildings. Images of gladiators in combat scrolled across the massive billboards that ran around the whole of the octagon shaped building. Bluestreak froze in place as the image of two terrifying looking mechs tearing the sparks from their opponents seemed to freeze on the screen. One yellow, one red, they stared down at him from the screen. The youngling covered his faceplates, and sobbed in abject terror.  
  
“Get a move on,” Barricade ordered as he wrench Bluestreak along by his arm. Without considering where he might go, where he might hide, the youngling screamed glyphlessly, dug his peds in and struggled to break free. For a few sparkbreaking nanokliks he was free, and Bluestreak first stumbled, than broke out into a desperate run. Barricade knock him off his peds before he got far, cursing him in filthy glyphs. Pulling him up again, and holding him by is throat, the older Praxian snarled: “Try that again, you worthless little scraplet, and I’ll just kill you instead of keeping you as bait.”  
  
“Bait?” Bluestreak squeaked with yet still increasing dread.  
  
“If your whore of an originator was half as smart as he thinks he is, he’d leave you to rust,” the Decepticon replied. “But under that cool facade, he’s a weak fool. He’ll run into the depths of ‘Con territory to get you back.”  
  
“My origin is not a whore!” The youngling snapped. His doorwings clattered on his back, as much with anger now as fear.  
  
“He ‘faced for pay,” Barricade sneered. “Mighta been paid with the job, with the status of that family, but he ‘faced for it. Makes him a whore.”  
  
“My origin is NOT A WHORE,” Bluestreak screeched. “And you are a rapist!”  
  
“Insulting Prowl’s what gets your courage up?” His progenitor cackled. “Better see if you can keep it.”  
  
Bluestreak was not given a chance to replied. He was dragged into the Arena, passed the archways that led to the seating, and down, down far below the arena floor. As they walked through the winding halls, the youngling recognized the faceplates of some of the gladiators he had seen on the billboards. Unconsciously, he started to inch a little closer for Barricade, but caught himself before he got too close. Finally, they stopped and some sort of common room. A particularly blindingly gaudy mech stood up, looking as though he was about to challenge the newcomers. Barricade flared his doorwings out, puffed out his chassis and stared up at the far taller mech. The youngling thought his origin would have looked down on the cocky display, but the multi-coloured mech actually backed down, giving the Praxian the barest of nods.  
  
“Where’s the old mech?” Barricade demanded. Bluestreak could not tell if the other mech was surprised by the request or not. In lieu of normal faceplates, he wore a gold mask. Only his green optics were visible. After a moment of silence the mech laughed.  
  
“What do you want with the rust bucket?” He asked.  
  
“None of your business,” the Praxian replied. “Megatron gave me express permission to put this scrap in his charge so why don’t you get off your aft and fetch him?”  
  
“Well, go get him,” the mech ordered one of his companions with a wave of one pink arm. At that, he turned his back to the Praxians, and returned to his game of dice.  
  
The nondescript underling went through a set of tall doors and disappeared. Bluestreak stood still, more still than he thought he ever had, not even his doorwings twitched. Megatron had given Barricade permission to leave him in the Arena? It was a terrifying thought, not just being left in the Arena, but that Megatron might have had any part in it. Whatever his progenitor thought, the youngling was not in any way stupid, and it was clear to Bluestreak that he was not just Barricade’s bait, but the Decepticon warlord’s as well. As desperately as the young mech wanted his origin to appear to save him, he was that much more terrified of the prospect of him falling into Megatron’s servos. There was not mechanism alive with a processor like his originator’s, and Bluestreak had no doubt that the tyrant would use threats against him to compel his origin to obey.  
  
Bluestreak did not have long to absorb this new horror. The doors flew open and the henchmech appeared, with a tall, very tall and broad warframe at his side. At first glance the mech, all over red, except for his upper legs, pelvis, and face was terrifying. Helm and shoulders taller than Barricade, he absolutely towered over Bluestreak. At second glance, the mech looked... dull, even sickly. His utilitarian finish looked to be in good shape, but the mech still managed to look faded, and his vents seemed to have been working harder than they should have been just from walking. Despite looking ill, when Bluestreak felt the mech’s optics on him, he shrank a little. There was a force to their look, and the youngling was sure he had not measured up to the mech’s standards when he passed his optics over from Bluestreak to Barricade.  
  
“Who the frag are you, ‘n what do ya want me to do with this bitlet?” The mech asked, gruffly. Where the gaudy mech had, in the end, all but cowed to Barricade, this mech actually scowled, and spoke to him with audible contempt, that same emotion projected out in his field.  
  
“I am Lieutenant Barricade, you are going to train him for the Arena,” Barricade declared. The old mech barked with laughter, his vents wheezed as he did. Bluestreak looked at his progenitor, and saw him seething.  
  
“You wouldn’t last a bream, ‘Con,” the old mech replied with his lipplates curled up in a sneer. “Ain’t any blasters in the Arena, you gotta couple’a pick-mes sittin’ on your back. Ain’t armour thick enough to fix that.”  
  
“You better get him ready,” the Decepticon snarled. Though near every mechanism they had encountered had at least look a bit wary when Barricade flared his doors and revved his engine. This mech managed to look bored.  
  
“Last that bream ‘n I’ll train the bitlet,” the red mech said, dryly.  
  
“The deal is, you train the scraplet, and your bastards get a break from the death matches,” Barricade hiss through clenched denta. His plating flared with temper, and his field all but bubbled over with it. “Megatron’s orders.”  
  
“I don’t give a frag what Megatron orders,” the old mech replied, less bored now, but not the least bit intimidated. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is Tarn. The contract is Shockwave’s,”  
  
“Shockwave knows who his master is,” the Praxian said. “They get a break from the death matches, and you still get the nanite rations.”  
  
“Looks like you’re comin’ with me, bitlet,” the gruff mech spoke to Bluestreak now, dismissing Barricade without another glyph. The prospect of going with him, despite what he would be entering into, was considerably less frightening a prospect than it had been. Whatever, and whoever this mech was, he was by far the lesser of the evils the youngling was currently facing.  
  
“What’s your designation, Sir?” Bluestreak asked as Barricade turned on his heel, abandoning him to whatever training the old mech might think up.  
  
“Ironhide,” the old mech said. “What about you, young mech, what do they call ya?”  
  
“Bluestreak,” he replied.  
  
“Come on through here, Bluestreak,” Ironhide ordered. “We got a private little corner in this Pit.”  
  
The doors opened again, and the youngling followed his new guardian through them, and into an odd looking room. It seemed like it had once been part of the same common room they had just left, but after it had been divided up, this room had taken on dueling purposes. A table with long benches sat next to an energon dispenser in one corner of the room, but on the other side was a training mat, and a frightening collection of weapons. So many different weapons lined the wall and floor, off to the side of the mat. Another long bench seemed to divide living quarters from training space. With a series of hard vents, Ironhide walked over to that bench and sat down with a clatter. Cautiously, Bluestreak followed and sat next to him. He really was not oddly short but the bench was quite high and he had to heft himself up a little. Patiently, he waited in silence for the old mech’s vents to even out. It was frightening to know that his new caretaker was seriously ill, was seriously ill and not in the care of medics at a medicentre. If Bluestreak found himself injured, in training or the arena, would he just lay there and leak until he greyed? Would he live to see his origin, his brother? Was there any way to escape this underground prison?  
  
“How’d ya end up with that slagtard, bitlet?” Ironhide asked after his vents evened out.  
  
“He’s my progenitor,” Bluestreak explained.  
  
“That’s some awful luck,” the old mech replied with a sigh.  
  
“I never even knew him,” the youngling said, and the glyphs started to pour off his glossa, as his small frame shook. “I mean, I met him once, Smokey, my brother took me to see him, he wanted to see me, it was a place like this, not like this, like the Arena, but small, and it was under a warehouse, and it was so scary. I cried. He was mad. He wanted to hit me but Smokey wouldn’t let him. Smokey took me home and I never saw him again until last dark-cycle... or was it two ‘cycle ago? He murdered my guardian... He killed Crunch because he wouldn’t had me over because my origin had said he wasn’t allowed near me. He killed Crunch and took me away. And then he made me watch... He made me watch. Made me watch... watch... him destroy Praxus.”  
  
“Fraggin’ Pit,” Ironhide cursed. Bluestreak flinched when the mech moved, and he lost all control and started to sob. Ironhide did not hit him though, the massive mech did not hurt him at all, instead he put a big, but comforting servo on his back, on one of the only places left undented. It only took that little gesture of comfort to entice Bluestreak to fling himself against the mech and cry his spark out. He cried until there was nothing left in him, no tears, no energy. The young Praxian slipped into an exhausted recharge as Ironhide stroked his back and murmured little glyphs of comfort.  
  
***  
  
Ironhide let out a long vent as he looked down at the youngling who had fallen asleep on his lap. He felt a twinge of guilt for agreeing to take him, and to train him, but it was pretty obviously Bluestreak would be safer with him than with his progenitor. Poor thing was terrorized and traumatized by the evil cogsucker who had sired him. Since Barricade had not given him a specific timeline, Ironhide thought he would spite the waste of plating and just use the youngling a bit like a hired servo. It was getting harder for him to manage the maintenance of his gym, even as small as it was. Every slagtard in the Arena called him the old mech, and true he was older than most of them, but Ironhide was nowhere near an ancient. He should have still been in his prime, but his spark was more than halfway burnt out, and he had been left fighting his vents, and fighting for enough energy to just move for the last several vorns. There was no doubt, no doubt in his or the Twins’ processors that it was getting worse, but what could they do?  
  
The Twins would have had him leave, go to Iacon and get treatment but Ironhide knew that was not an option. Even if he made it out of Tarn without one of Shockwave’s henchmech shooting him in the back, his case had progressed too far for most any medic to offer him any help. It would take a medic with magic servos to fix his spark, and Ironhide had never believed in magic. Should he managed to find a miracle worker, there would be no getting back into Tarn. Had it even seemed a little possible, Ironhide would have jumped for it vorns ago. There would have been even less of a chance of getting back into the Arena, and back to his mechlings so the “old” mech had made his peace, and had made the choice to remain. So long as he lived, Shockwave would be held to their deal, only so long as he lived.  
  
He was running out of time. The plan had never been to sit and rust away, to send the Twins to fight again, and again until he expired. Ironhide had always planned on, had always, always been hunting for an escape, less for him, of course, than for his mechlings. After so many vorns, the gruff mech had long run out of hope, but he had never stopped looking for a crack, for some weakness in the Arena’s architecture, he owed Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as much. Bluestreak might actually represent their biggest chance since Shockwave had conscripted the Twins into the Pit when they were even younger than Bluestreak would be now. Whereas Ironhide was crippled by his weakened spark, the little Praxian was healthy. There were areas he could probably go, where Ironhide had never managed to venture, no one was going to see him as a threat. Beyond even that, there was the matter of the mechling’s origin. He had not wailed for him, as the red mech would have expected had the mech died in Praxus, so maybe just maybe he was still alive. If the mech was alive, odds were he would come looking for his creation, and if Ironhide could keep Bluestreak out of the Arena long enough, they might all get rescued. Hope. Hope was like a blade, and it cut, and it cut, until you had leaked dry, but in this instance, Ironhide was ready to grab it by the blade and hold on.  
  
The Twins would not be back until late in the dark-cycle, they had fights all mid-cycle, though no death matches had been scheduled, thank Primus, so Ironhide did not have to fear he would lose them before he could deliver the news. Ironhide was uneasy as to how they were going to react to the newcomer. They had not been allowed to be younglings for long, not that it had been their origin’s choice, not that he had not fought it, hopeless or not, but they were bound to resent his decision to take on the young Praxian, and to fight and to conspire to keep him out of the Arena as best he could. Most mechanisms would point to Sunstreaker being the greatest danger, but that was not strictly true. No one knew these mechings like Ironhide, and while at face value his yellow mechling was more aggressive, it was Sideswipe who held grudges, and he was fiendishly clever at finding ways to exact his revenge. It was Sideswipe that utilized the most creative means of killing his opponents, his twin was general more direct. If they wanted to, between the two of them, they could makes Bluestreak’s life an even bigger Pit that it had already become. The tired old mech wanted to believe they would be sympathetic to the youngling, but they had been through so much, and for so long, Ironhide feared there was nothing left in their sparks but the need to survive, and that was no one’s fault but his. He had trained them to kill, to do whatever was necessarily to live. Doing any different had been unimaginable at the time, but Ironhide often laid awake in the dark-cycle since then, wondering if death all those vorns ago might not have been kinder.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Bluestreak murmured as he onlined, and sat up on his own. The poor thing looked like he had taken more than a few blows, not just to his psyche. “I need to be stronger.”  
  
“I think ya’ve been stronger enough, Bluestreak,” Ironhide replied. “It’s okay to breakdown ‘n cry. Holdin’ it in for too long’ll warp yer spark.”  
  
“Have you been here a long time?” The youngling asked.  
  
“Too long,” he revealed. “Vorns.”  
  
“My originator said a lot of the gladiators in places like this are slaves, is that true?” Bluestreak asked.  
  
“Yah, yah it is,” Ironhide said. “I ain’t a gladiator, I’m a coach. Long time ago, I left Iacon, with my Amica Endura, came here since he had this idea that he was going to win his fortune in the Arena. Soldiers weren’t paid much more than scrap in those ‘cycles, doubt it’s much better now. After a while, we decided to create. Just made sense for me to carry. When my mechlings were younger than you their ‘genitor died in a bout. I didn’t know he was doing death matches. Sure they paid more, but what you were riskin’, it was a slaggin’ stupid risk. Didn’t know he’d had the Senator advancin’ his winnings. Tarn, that fragger took my creations outta their school, locked’em in here to pay their ‘genitor’s debts. I had a choice. I could stay with’em, train’em. Or I could leave. If I ever left, I’d never see’em again, of course I stayed.”  
  
“Is that why you haven’t seen a medic?” The young Praxian guessed.  
  
“Yah, that’s right,” the red mech replied. “Shockwave wants me to die, so the reins come off my twins, so the medics here will see to them, but not me.”  
  
“Why are you sick?” Bluestreak asked, and immediately looked guilty. “I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have asked.”  
  
“It’s alright, Bluestreak,” Ironhide said. “My carrying didn’t go right. They had to be cut free from my spark ‘n the medic I saw was a butcher. My spark scarred up ‘n it’s sorta stuck to the side of my chamber. Repair nanites keep me goin’ but I’m goin’ to go... Soon, I suppose, in the grand scheme. Within the vorn.”  
  
“When my origin comes... when he comes he’ll save all of us,” the youngling declared, there was suddenly flash of guilt and fear in the little mech’s field. Ironhide reached over and rubbed his back.  
  
“Tell me what’s got you spooked,” the old mech asked.  
  
“Barricade... my progenitor... he wants to use me as bait!” Bluestreak revealed. “And... and... He’ll hurt my origin! He’ll make him help Megatron. I want him to find me but I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to get hurt for me!”  
  
“Who’s your origin?” Ironhide asked.  
  
“He’s designated Prowl,” the young Praxian explained. “He used to be Praefectus Vigilum in Praxus. He just joined the Autobots. They already named him Chief Tactical Officer.”  
  
“I see why Megatron would want him,” the gruff old mech sighed. “I’m bettin’ he’s a smart mech. I don’t think he’d let himself get caught to easy.”  
  
“No one’s smarter!” Bluestreak exclaimed. “He has this mod... my brother hates it... but it lets origin test dozens of strategies at once! He’s so smart... But Barricade hurt him before. I’m not supposed to know... Barricade raped him, and I’m the result. Our vicomagister... umm... the head of the family ordered origin to go... to get sparked up. Origin didn’t want to. He already had my brother... already had Smokey because the vicomagister made him. And they always fought... it was already pretty bad... but origin went, and Barricade threatened him... with something, I don’t know what... and he raped my origin.”  
  
“I can see why your scared for him,” Ironhide replied. “But remember, little mech, he’s not on his own now, he’s with the Autobots, and they won’t let him go one his own.”  
  
“He doesn’t know where I am,” the youngling said, tears began to pour from his optics and his vents hiccupped. “My spark hurts too much. I know they weren’t in Praxus. I know they’re okay... But I just hurt.”  
  
“It would, younglin’,” Ironhide agreed. “You’ve been through Pit, and this isn’t much better, but I’ll keep you safe until your origin figures out where you are. For now, let’s go to my alcove. I’m got a decent medkit. Think we should take a look at all those dents.”  
  
“He hit me, and kicked me when I screamed,” Bluestreak revealed. “Until I blacked out, and again after... He’s evil.”  
  
“That he is,”  the red mech agreed. “Come on. We’re gonna have to figure out where you’re gonna ‘charge. “My mechlings have a room, I got a corner.”  
  
“I can recharge on the floor,” the Praxian mech offered.  
  
“Oh I wouldn’t do that to ya, bitlet,” Ironhide said. “Come on now.”  
  
Bluestreak had more dents than smooth plating. Ironhide thought he would like to rip the doorwings off Barricade’s back and beat him with them, and if the ‘Con tried to pull the youngling out, Ironhide might just might do exactly that. Despite Shockwave’s ties to Megatron, Tarn, and specifically the Arena operated under its own rules. Ironhide’s little gym was realm of its own.The old soldier could do just about what he wished inside these four walls, and he rarely stepped outside of them, and he never went farther than the common room his doors opened onto. Clench ran the rest of the Arena, trained and lorded over the rest of the gladiators, free mechanisms or slaves. He may have resented Ironhide’s special treatment, but he was not fool enough to defy Shockwave.  
  
The Twins, at one point had stretched their legs, and their limits beyond the common room. They had paid for it, Sunstreaker had paid for it. Ironhide had ripped Pounder apart for laying his servos on Sunstreaker, but the damage had been done. His younglings had both been traumatized, and it may have been that instance, not the first time they had killed a mech that had stripped them of their innocence. Before that they had believed that their ol’mech could protect them from the worst of the Arena’s dangers, after that they had learnt, Ironhide had learnt too, that he was largely impotent, largely useless as any kind of defence. It had been a bitter lesson for Ironhide, one that still stuck in his throat. He was largely helpless to protect the Praxian bitlet. If Megatron or Shockwave ordered Bluestreak onto the arena floor, Ironhide would be unable to refuse. As he treated the small youngling’s many dents, the old Iaconian warframe made a promise, one he thought better than voicing. Should he be ordered to put the youngling into a bout, knowing that even if it was not meant to be a death match, it would be, Ironhide would kill Bluestreak here, quick and clean, never letting him see it coming. He thought the act would be the last straw for his spark, if it ever came to that, but it would be more merciful, it was a mercy he should have granted his own creations, but he had been a coward.  Ironhide would not be a coward again.  
  
“That should be a bit better,” Ironhide said as he set down the regenerator.  
  
“It’s a lot better,” Bluestreak replied. “My helm hurts but I had an accident at school, and even after I saw the medic my helm hurt, and Origin said that the processor sometimes just needs a few ‘cycles to repair.”  
  
“That’s right,” the old mech agreed. “No heavylifting or roughhousing for ya, and y’re gonna feel fit as a freshly polished cog after a few good ‘charges.”  
  
“What am I going to do here?” The youngling asked. “You said Barricade wouldn’t last in the fights... How am I supposed to survive?”  
  
“Ain’t gonna train ya for that slag,” Ironhide explained. “A little self defence, a few tricks in case ya find trouble, but I don’t plan for ya to step out on the floor. Thing is the folks in the audience want a show. Clench’ll back me, and he’s got some sway with Shockwave. They wouldn’t want the mechfluid hungry crowd to riot ‘cause they wasted their credits. What I’m gonna have ya do is help me out with the chores. I don’t got at much get up and go as I once did. It’ll really be a help if you can help me keep this place in order.”  
  
“I can do that!” Bluestreak assured him.    
  
***  
  
New of Praxus’ destruction spread through the Autobots and Iacon like a Rust Plague or inferno. The dome, not dissimilar to the one that should have protected Praxus from the Decepticon attack, covered the spark of the city. Air patrols flew over to the palace that served as the Autobot power base. Devcon had been forced to land his craft at the Hub on the fringes of the Iacon, and to drive to one of the dome’s checkpoints. He had been lucky to get in at all, only Jazz’s metaphorical stamp on his ID file had gotten him past the Vanguards controlling travel in and out of the dome. That stamp had also gotten him passed the Vanguards stationed at the base, but it had taken for cajoling on Devcon’s part than normal. After this long, the guards knew the bounty hunter’s faceplates, but their guard was up, as it should have been, and while Devcon wore the Autobot insignia, he was not expressly one of them.  
  
They had let him in, in the end, thinking he had urgent intelligence for Jazz, a lie of course, but Devcon did not feel even a fragment of guilt. He scoured the Palace, for what felt like joors as he searched for Smokescreen. The only thing he knew was that his Amica was on base, but where was the question. After checking the common room, Special Ops, and the training field, Devcon made his way to the barracks, dodging Autobots as they raced about with no real rhyme or reason. Smokey had told him that he had a bunk on base, but they had only hooked up at the Praxian’s origin’s place, and the bounty hunter did not know which of the units held the Praxian’s bunk.  There was no choice to but to do what he had often been forced to do on assignments, Devcon went from unit, to unit and ask questions. Instead of answers, he got blank looks, or scowls. Some Bots were getting ready to join the rescue teams headed for Praxus, the lot of good they could do, based on the images Devcon had seen. In any case, everyone he came across was too busy, too angry, or just straight up unwilling to answer the simple question of: where is Smokescreen?                                                                                                   
  
“Fragging Pit,” he cursed, barely resisting the urge to put his fist through the nearest wall.  
  
“Hey Mech, did I hear you say you were looking for Smokescreen?” A black, behemoth of a Tyger Paxian asked. Devcon was not a particularly big mech, and he was used to staring down big mechs that thought they could intimidate him. But this was not an assignment, and the Tyger Paxian was not a Con so the bounty hunter had to swallow his temper and look pleasant.  
  
“I am,” Devcon replied. “I’m a… friend.”  
  
“He’s in Tactics,” the behemoth said. “After what happened, he could probably use all the friends he has.”  
  
“Thanks!” The bounty hunter called as he was already two steps out the door.  
  
Tactics was not a department he had had any cause to visit until now, but Devcon was not concerned with propriety or protocol. Smokescreen had told him his little brother was still in Praxus, he was probably still there, what little would remain of him. The bounty hunters spark thrummed painfully. Bad enough to see you frametype eradicated, but to lose your brother too? Devcon knew Smokescreen would be devastated, knew he would need someone who loved him. It did not occur to the bounty hunter that this was his Amica’s origin’s domain. Really, it should have. When the doors slid open and Devcon darted in, he was stopped, stock still, by the cold, hard stare of the former Praefectus Vigilum. He found himself paralyzed by the look, unable to break his own optics free. Smokescreen was clinging to his originator’s chassis, silent save for the clatter of his armour as his doorwings flapped irregularly. There was no doubt in Devcon’s processer that he was being analyzed. The entire time, it could have been no more than a klik, the bounty hunter was silent. In the end, he was not dismissed, and it was not Devcon that broke first. Prowl lowered his helm, and spoke to Smokescreen:  
  
“A friend of yours, I believe.”  
  
“Dev,” Smokescreen did not turned at first, but as he spoke his doorwings stilled. As he finally turned, he looked up at Devcon with an expression of torment. “You’re back.”       
  
“I came to Iacon as soon as I heard,” Devcon replied. It was awkward, speaking with the older Praxian presence, with those pale optics on him again. He curled, and uncurled his digits, and refused to flinch.  
  
“Is there a place you would like to go, Smokescreen?” Prowl asked. His voice was soft, and empty. It stood out in contrast to the voice Devcon remembered. The Praefectus Vigilum had always spoken with strength and control. It had always been, rightly described as a monotone, this could not. This sounded hollow, something completely different. “The barracks, my habsuite?”  
  
“Dev’s hotel,” his lover said. He slowly sat up, letting his servos drop from his originator’s plating. “I can’t go to your suite… Bluestreak was supposed to be there… I can’t.”  
  
“I understand,” the originator replied, and he stood and helped Smokescreen up. “I will see that you get there undisturbed.”  
  
Devcon did not know what he had expected Prowl to do, but the authoritative Praxian really did not need to do anything to keep both well wishers or lookey-loos away. All Prowl did was extend his field, his eerie, empty field, and everybot kept a respectful distance. Brunching up against his field was unnerving, the bounty hunter admitted. There was not like the field of a mechanism in recharge, there was energy to the currents of the electro magnetic particles, but there was no emotion, no thought. Despite the horrific loss he had experienced, the former Praefectus Vigilum was perfectly in control. That might have been the thing that disturbed Devcon the most. Every mechanism had a breaking point, if this did not bring Prowl to his knees, what would?  
  
It was unnerving leading the way to his rented habsuite, near the top of the mid-rang hotel Devcon had booked. He had been meaning to have Smokescreen over, but he had never imagined bringing Prowl to his suite. Despite this unease, the bounty hunter kept his cool, and made absolutely certain neither Praxian knew how wound up he was. You did not survive bounty hunting, any longer than you survived espionage, if you were easily read. Devcon told himself he would offer his Amica’s origin a cube, engex or energon, he would be smooth, and cool, whatever he needed to be. Devcon was not inclined to like Prowl. Smokescreen had had a rough younglinghood with him, rougher than it needed to be, but maybe Devcon was biased. But if the originator needed to answer for it to anyone, or explain it to anyone, it was to Smokescreen. Maybe he already had, maybe they had come together, made a connection. If they had, it was new, and the bounty hunter hoped it was strong enough to survive this blow.  
  
“Sit, Smokescreen,” Prowl ordered once they had entered the habsuite. Devcon’s plating immediately flared as his hackles came up, but he relaxed the moment Smokescreen replied.  
  
“You aren’t staying, h’uh?” Smokey asked, voice raw and soft.  
  
“No, I need to go to Praxus,” the originator replied. At that, both his creation, and his creation’s lover stared at him. Prowl did not look at either directly, his optics were just ever so slightly downcast. He was hurting, Devcon was finally certain of this, finally sure the field, and the faceplates were just a mask. At this realization, the bounty hunter felt a bit guilty for his less than charitable thoughts.  
  
“I should too then,” the younger Praxian said. Devcon was not the only one to jerk at the statement.  
  
“No!” Devcon exclaimed, aghast.  
  
“Smokescreen, the images of Praxus will never leave you,” Prowl warned. “It will be worse there. You do not need to see it, or to feel it.”  
  
“But you do?” Smokescreen asked, eyeing his origin critically, Devcon gave the elder mech a similar look.  
  
“It is not something I can explain,” the former Praefectus Vigilum replied, voice dropping low. “It is just something I need to do.”  
  
“Optimus isn’t going to go along with it,” his creation warned.  
  
“I will have to convince him,” Prowl said. The statement was spoken without conviction, without force. Devcon realized it was not a statement of fact but a plea. For whatever reason, the former Enforcer really did feel a need to see the destruction in Praxus. It did not have to make sense to Devcon, or to Smokescreen, that much was clear. But it was also clear to both creation and lover that this was not an act of pride, honour or anything else, but a very real need.  
  
“Alright, go,” Smokescreen replied, watching his origin with his gambler’s stare. “Be careful.”  
  
Prowl turned on his ped and left. Devcon sat next to Smokescreen who immediately melted into his side. He did not cry, had probably used up his tears already, but he molded himself as close to Devcon as he could. In turn, the bounty hunter held his Amica, and poured all his love into his field. They stayed that way for a joor or longer. In the end, Smokescreen was curled on the couch, his helm resting on Devcon’s lap as the bounty hunter stroked his plating. Grief was heavy in the air, not just Smokescreen’s, but Devcon’s too. He had lived in Praxus all his early vorns, met Smokey, loved Smokey, and even broken away from Lockdown, his ‘genitor there. There had been plenty of scandal and corruption in Praxus, but nothing that should have attracted Megatron’s attention. It made no sense, but maybe evil just did not.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Smokey,” Devcon said when he finally spoke.  
  
“Thanks,” Smokescreen replied, he did not bother to raise his helm. Exhaustion mixed with grief in his field. “I just don’t understand it. Why Praxus? Why my brother?”  
  
End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour, 10 breams  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> X-frame: biracial transformer (refers to transformers who appear neither predominately one or the other of their procreator’s frametype)  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

Prowl’s return to the Autobot base did not go unnoticed. The frantic chaos had been brought under some semblance of control, and those Primal Vanguards at the gates, and the Autobots remaining on the grounds were sombre and still. Some cried, clustered together under the tin trees that dotted the courtyard, others spoke in low voices. All who noticed Prowl watched him, analyzed him. He felt their judgments piling up, felt the weight of them, and he wanted to scream. Despite having lived the great bulk of his life judged and found deficient, these dozen of optics trained on his back and on his face were considerably heavier, considerably harder to bare than those before. They were not Praxians. Their creation was not dead in the rubble, who were they to judge his grief? As a scream welled in his vocalizer, the tactician sought shelter, and privacy in Jazz’s office. Hound had returned to his procreator leave, Smokescreen was with Devcon. There were other operatives, of course, but most were out in the field, none would linger in the Polihexian’s office without him.

 

They wanted him to prostrate himself with grief, to tear at his plating, to curse the Gods, to cry. This was what a proper mechanism, a proper originator would do. His reputation as a cold spark, or as a drone would be cemented by his lack of any of the above demonstration. It should not have angered him, it should not have mattered what the rabble thought of him, but it did matter, and it did anger him. Prowl wanted to scream, to curse them, and the Gods but the screams lodged in his spark, never even making it so far as his vocalizer. This was his glitch, the emotions felt strong enough to suffocate his spark, but he could not scream, and he could not cry. In all his expansive, and faultless memory, the Praxian did not recall every crying. So he stood, digits curled in the saboteur’s desk, crushed under the weight of all he had lost, with no outlet, no release. He needed to go to Praxus. He needed to break.

 

Eventually Jazz found him, though how long Prowl had been standing their, lost in guilt and hateful grief, the Praxian did not know, he had not been paying any attention to his chronometer. The sight of his... friend... had the grief bubbling up into the tactician’s throat, but even as his opened his mouth no sounds came out. Jazz crossed the room, and pulled Prowl into his arms. There was no hesitation, Prowl wrapped his arms around the other mech and bowed his helm against Jazz’s neck. He said nothing, made no sound at all but he clung to the saboteur as his spark flared, a million or more tiny threads reaching out for their shattered bonds.

 

“’M so sorry, Prowl,” Jazz said, dipping his helm to rest against the Praxian’s.

 

“I calculated that the Decepticons posed a threat to Praxus,” Prowl revealed. “I calculated that it could be a target in the future. I did not calculate there was any imminent danger.”

 

“This isn’t on ya, Prowl,” the Polihexian replied. “Y’re gonna hold yerself accountable, but it ain’t on ya.”

 

“You put it on yourself,” the tactician said.

 

“This is the sorta thing Ops is ‘sposed to catch,” Jazz replied. “I didn’t here a damn thing ‘bout this brewin’. So ya, ‘m puttin’ on me, on the Autobots.”

 

“You guard your missions closely, the Decepticons would have done the same,” Prowl offered. “Praxus was failed from within. The dome would have protected it. It was disabled. The controls were within Enforcer Command.”

 

“We’ll find out how,” the saboteur promised. “How’s Smokey?”

 

“Distraught,” the Praxian replied. “He’s with Devcon.”

 

“Wouldn’ta thought ya’d approve o’ that,” Jazz said. “I like the mech, but I know where he started.”

 

“It isn’t my place to approve or disapprove,” Prowl replied. “His progenitor was a friend of Barricade’s, that Devcon chose to make his own way speaks well for him.”

 

“Next ships leavin’ in a joor, I gotta be on it,” the Polihexian said. “Go back to Smokey, ‘m sure he wants ya there.”

 

“I need to go to Praxus,” Prowl said. A soft huff escaped the Polihexian’s vents, and he stepped back, and put his servos on Prowl’s face.

 

“Don’t torture yerself,” the saboteur all but pleaded. “Let me to this for ya. If there’s anythin’ for ya in Praxus, I’ll comm ya.”

 

It should have been possible for Prowl to argue, to seamlessly create the perfect counter-argument, but he had nothing. Prowl bowed his helm, too overwhelmed, too worn to speak for himself. Jazz kiss his helm, and the affection that inspired the other mech to hamper him took some of the bitter sting away. He needed Jazz to understand, needed him to see how Prowl needed go, to see Praxus himself, but the tactician did not have the glyphs, neither did he have the fight in him. So frustrated as he was, the Praxian stayed with Jazz, and wallowed in his comforting presence, saying nothing more. Before the joor was up, the Polihexian left, promising again to comm Prowl if there was anything in Praxus he needed to see, and ordered him to return to Smokescreen. For a bream the tactician remained alone in the saboteur’s office, frustration growing. Smokescreen may have wanted him with him, but Prowl thought Devcon would do better at comforting his surviving creation. Prowl could only hope that Smokescreen would forgive this abandonment, but this originator simply could not go back to the hotel.

 

Before he came up with an idea of where he ought to go, or what he ought to do, Optimus Prime entered the office. Prowl stood at attention, but even his rigid training and beliefs could not get the doorwings to rise on his back. The Matrix-Bearer looked tired, and strained, the knowledge that the loss of Prowl’s framekin had struck a blow to the Prime meant nothing to Prowl. Genocide ought to have been painful, it out to have been shocking to Cybertron at large. Optumus Prime would be under a microscope, but it was not in the Praxian to feel anything in the way of sympathy, anything at all. He was not sure what he was supposed to do, what he was supposed to say. With the Prime’s tired optics on him, Prowl bristled a little.

 

“Jazz told me you were here,” the Matrix-Bearer said. “I’m more sorry than I can say, Prowl. I know that’s of no comfort.”

 

“Thank you,” Prowl replied, the great mech’s optics were on him, was Prowl doing to fall flat to him as well?

 

“You’ll be given all the bereavement leave you require,” Optimus Prime offered. Prowl violently shook his helm, and his digits dug into the desk at his back.

 

“I do not need leave, I need work,” the Praxian said, a hard, but brittle edge to his voice. “I need to see Praxus for myself.”

 

“Your spark is broken, Prowl,” the Prime replied. “I can’t let you subject yourself to that. Go home, away from prying optics.”

 

Like with Jazz, Prowl found himself unable to formulate an argument. Frustration, and anger surged. Thanks to Ratchet’s medical locks, he could not raise his ATS’s power levels, and use it both to smother his emotions, or even to out think and outmanoeuvre his opponent, no matter how good the mech’s intentions. They wanted to protect him, Prowl realized, and that softened some of his ire but it did not touch the hate, or the impotence he felt towards himself. He had failed Bluestreak, failed Smokescreen, failed Praxus. It must have shown, somehow, perhaps in the slump of his shoulders, and the bowing of his helm, but the turmoil within Prowl must have been visible because Optimus Prime stepped forward, and place a large servo on his shoulder.

 

“We will take care of Praxus for you,” he said. “You can trust it with us.”

 

The Prime left then as well, going himself to the site of the genocide. He had been wrong, and Prowl seethed. His spark was not broken, and he desperately needed it to break, needed it shattered. No one understood, and if the Praxian were to be honest, he was too ashamed to try and explain himself properly. Jazz might have listened if Prowl had just told him, told him the bond to Bluestreak remained. It was scarred, dark and silent as the crypt, a ghost bond for certain, but still it remained, and until it broke the tactician did not believe he would be able to properly grieve. Primus above and below, Prowl needed it to shatter, so that he might shatter with it, and if he survivied it, put the fragments of his spark back together again. So long as it remained, there could be no relief, no healing grief, just a slow and stagnant death.

 

A sudden bolt of rage flooded his systems and Prowl saw white. Hate at the Prime, hate at Jazz, hate at the Decepticons, and at himself. He swivelled on one ped, put his servos at the edge of the desk and toppled it. When his vision cleared, the anger bled dry, Prowl was left shamed and lost. He had failed to convince either Optimus Prime or Jazz to allow him on the rescue and recovery mission to Praxus, had not even put up a real fight, and the window of time to try again had closed. Prowl looked down at the upturned desk, but found he had neither the physical nor the mental strength to right it. Instead, he turned again and went for the door. He walked passed the Autobots that remained at the base, and blocked out their judging optics. His medical leave was not over, which made him free to do as he would. What tactician needed was a transport, one that would be willing to fly him to the ruins of Praxus, and though he knew no such mechanism, Smokescreen certainly would.

 

It was hypocritical to make use of the underworld ties his creation had forged. At one point it had been his mission to undermine and out right destroy them, but Prowl was desperate. If Smokescreen turned him away than he would have to find his own transport, make whatever payment was necessary, at the cost of his reputation, or anything else. He hoped desperately he could convince Smokescreen to lend his aid, but the tactician was not confident he could; after all, he had failed to convince either Jazz or Optimus Prime to let him go with them to Praxus. Prowl tried to formulate a convincing case, but even to his own processor, the glyphs fell flat. The only thing he was certain would work, he would not use. There was no way he would use their shared loss of Bluestreak to manipulate his surviving creation into helping him. Even the idea of doing so made his tank churn. So he drove from the Palace turned base for the mid-range hotel Devcon patronized still searching for some way to convince Smokescreen to help him. Helm aching with the demands Prowl was placing on his hampered tactical systems, and his overworked emotional cortex, the Praxian almost wished that he would crash again, if only for the reprieve it would give him. But the embarrassment that came with a public episode, never mind the pain that still lingered from his earlier crash made even that relief unpalatable.

 

When he arrived at the hotel, Prowl hesitated. He would be intruding, selfishly at that, on his creation’s grief, on the comfort he was certainly receiving from the lover of his younglinghood. Devcon had been visibly uncomfortable with the elder Praxian’s presence, and fair enough. Prowl’s presence, as it often seemed to have been in Smokescreen’s life, would no doubt make things worse of his creation. Being desperate, did that make this demand really anymore excusable? It was not, of course it was not, but Prowl was desperate, desperate and overwhelmed. Guilt began to overcome desperation, and the Praxian’s helm throbbed all the harder. It was wrong, he was wrong, he needed to make his own inquiries, ask his own questions, and if he was sold into slavery, or stabbed in the back for hiring the wrong transport, could it be so much worse than living like this?

 

Primus above, that was a melodramatic thought.

 

-“Just come up,” Smokescreen’s comm broke his from the thought loop Prowl had become locked in.

 

-“What?” He asked, genuinely confused.

 

-“So I know you’re down there,” his creation replied. “I can feel it... which is weird... but whatever. Get up here, already.”

 

Prowl obeyed, and he understood then that his spark, and Smokescreen’s as well was unshielded. They had never been so close as to track each other, but at the moment Praxus had been murdered, both their sparks had been stripped bare, and now, joors after, the originator felt his creation’s immense grief, layered on top of his own. Smokescreen’s grief had rooted in his spark to such an extent that the tactician was not sure who’s emotions he was feeling. He vented a long sigh as he walked the steps to the hotel. His own emotions were tormenting him enough, he really did not need the weight of Smokescreen’s as well, but he was the originator and if taking on his mechling’s grief aided Smokescreen in anyway, than it was a necessary burden. For all his previous failings, Prowl owed him this much and so much more, and so he left his spark unguarded.

 

The door to Devcon’s rented habsuite opened as Prowl walked towards it. Once again, he hesitated, but need overrode restraint, and he entered the room. Smokescreen was sitting with his lover, a thought that disturbed him less than anyone might have expected, but he had known his creation had bee involved with this other young mech when they had first begun, all those vorns ago. That act was one the Praxian thought best to keep to himself. Devcon started to rise, as though to give his spot to Prowl, but the tactician shook his helm. He needed to stand. Prowl saw both the young mech turn their helms and share a look. It was another judgment, he realized, but the concern the flooded Smokescreen field and slowly drifted through their familial bond made the observation less bitter, though the originator felt a new flare of guilt. Smokescreen should not have needed to worry for him.

 

“I guess Prime said no?” Smokescreen asked.

 

“Less succinctly, but yes, Jazz as well,” Prowl replied.

 

“You’re still determined to go,” his creation said, looking sad and tired. In that moment, the originator knew he should go to him, embrace him, but his peds were cemented to the floor.

 

“I need to,” he replied, the admission spoken softer than he intended. It sounded like a plea. “I intend to hire a transport, I hoped you might have a recommendation.”

 

“Devcon,” Smokescreen replied, quickly and he brush a tear away. The suggestion catching the mech in question by surprise.

 

“Uh, sure,” Devcon said. “Whatever you need.”

 

“I would not which to take him away from you,” Prowl replied. “You need him.”

 

“I need to know the mechanism transporting my originator isn’t going to kill him and leave him in a crater,” the young mech countered, with a raspy laugh. “I’ve got friends here, I won’t be alone while you’re gone.”

 

“My transports just outside Iacon’s shield,” the bounty hunter explained, moving to stand again. “I’ve got Special Ops clearance so no one should try and stop me from landing.”

 

“Smokecreen...” the elder Praxian began.

 

“I know you need to go home,” Smokescreen said. “I don’t know why, I don’t need you to explain. If you need to, you need to, and I need to know someone I trust has your back.”

 

The relief that flooded Prowl’s systems was too much. He tried to speak, tried to thank Smokescreen but his sensory systems shut down, one at a time in quick succession as the pinch in his processor seemed to release. His vision faded as his joints locked. Arms wrapped around him as coolant surged back into his extremities, and his frame collapsed. Prowl did not hear either mech speak. The last thing he knew was the sensation of the cool tiled floor against his doorwings as he was gently lowered to the ground.

 

***

 

“I figured he was gonna have another one,” Smokescreen said, with a soft huff.

 

“I didn’t realize it was like that,” Devcon said, as he eased his servo out from under Prowl’s head. “It sounds like it hurts.”

 

“He doesn’t talk about it, and let’s be honest, I’ve been way too much of a slagtard to ask, but Bluestreak always took care of him,” the young Praxian explained, and a wave of sadness washed over him. He brushed a servo along his origin’s arm. “Blue’d chase me off if I came home with a chip on my shoulder if origin’d just had a crash. He’d say that origin felt rough enough he didn’t need to be dealing with my mouth. I loved Blue enough to listen to him. I read up on it when I got into the academy, the different types of crashes. Origin’s are caused by overheating. As a last ditch effort to prevent damage, all of his coolant leaves his extremities to cool his processor, that causes the joints to lock. When his processor shuts down, it all flows back out again. He crashed already, earlier, he’s going to hurt all over when he wakes up.”

 

“Is he still gonna wanna go?” His lover asked.

 

“No doubt,” the Praxian replied. “He needs to. I don’t know why but I can feel it. He’s desperate, and he’s scared. So when he wakes up, I’ll make him take a block, and then you’ll fly him to Praxus.”

 

“Where’re you gonna go,” Devcon asked, and paused. “So I can come find you when I’ve got him back here.”

 

“Hound’s,” Smokescreen revealed. “I don’t want to deal with my buddies yet... I don’t want to talk about how I feel. I want to sit... Hound’ll let me do that.”

 

“Okay,” the Altihexian replied. “Whatever you want.”

 

“Thanks, sweetspark,” the rookie said, quickly kissing the side of Devcon’s mouth before turning his attention back to his originator. He placed a servo on Prowl’s crest. “Still hot. He’ll be down for a joor at least.”

 

“So you don’t need to call a medic for him?” Devcon asked.

 

“Never did in Praxus,” Smokescreen replied. “Windbreaker would’ve had cyberkittens. Blue took care of him... now I need to, for my brother.”

 

Smokescreen’s calculations were off, it was closer to two joors when Prowl finally stirred, but to give himself credit, it was his first time handling his origin’s crash aftercare. The mech in question did not moan or otherwise make any sound of the pain he would have onlined in, just like earlier in the ‘cycle in Tactics. He activated his optics, laying for a moment, staring unseeing at the ceiling before releasing a long vent, and moving to sit up. It was probably not necessary but as his origin started to sit up, Smokescreen reached for him, and helped guide him upright. Devcon was just a few steps away, field rippling with concern and uncertainty. If Smokescreen needed his help with his origin, the Altihexian would approach but for now he was keeping a bit of distance.

 

“You okay, Origin?” Smokescreen asked. “Do you need that medic? Two in a ‘cycle’s more than I think you’ve had in vorns.”

 

“I am unharmed,” Prowl replied, and as he looked up at Smokescreen’s frightened optics, he squeezed his servo. “There is no damage, Smokescreen.”

 

“Probably hurting though, h’uh? The younger Praxian asked, gently. He kept his digits curled around his origin’s palm. “If you’re going to face Praxus, you need a blocker.”

 

“You are aware how I react to them,” his originator said.

 

“Just a light one to take the edge off,” Smokescreen promised. “Happens I inherited your sensitivity. Hoist mixed me up a blend for my ped that didn’t send my helm spinning.”

 

“I was unaware,” Prowl murmured. It dawned on the young mech that he could feel his originator’s guilt. That explained why he had known that Prowl had been at his doorstep, their familial bond was wide open.

 

“You wouldn’t have,” the rookie replied, shaking his helm. He reached out a servo, and Devcon put the jet injector in his servo. Without pausing, he dosed his origin. “I never got hurt bad enough back then to need any serious blockers. I dislocated doorwing during basic training. Jazz was fragged right off. I wasn’t supposed to go through Basic, since I was a “Special” enlistment, but a few of the other officers looked down their olfactory ridges at him, still do I guess, and when he was off on a surprise mission, they signed me up for it, and I didn’t want to make too many waves right then, and I was cocky, so I went along with it. Figured I’d show them, and Jazz. Except I got set up to spar with a big aft warframe, and he tossed me... Jazz was so fragging mad off. Hoist too since he hadn’t ever treated a Praxian and he was afraid of fragging up.”

 

“You gave Jazz instructions on how to set a doorwing,” the elder mech said. “I am grateful. It would have been problematic to give him instructions as Rodion was bombed around us.”

 

“Funny how it worked out,” Smokescreen hummed, considering this, it had been lucky, had it not? If one more thing had gone wrong, both Jazz and his origin may not have come home at all. If Windbreaker had blocked his custody, and he would have, Bluestreak still would have died in Praxus, and Smokescreen would now be all alone. “How’s your helm? Feeling woozy or weird?”

 

“Not particularly,” Prowl replied. He looked at Smokescreen, with those perceptive optics of his, though they were not so bright as normal. “Are you certain you can spare Devcon?”

 

“I’ll be okay,” the creation said. “If you’re going to go without me, I need to know you’re actually safe... And you were right... I don’t really want to see it... not up close.”

 

“I will remain only as long as necessary,” his originator promised him.

 

Smokescreen only nodded. A sob suddenly choked him, and he swallowed it down and lunged forward to hug his origin. His spark was in turmoil, and he was trying so hard to keep it to himself. He was angry, so so angry. How could his origin have left Bluestreak? How could he have let Windbreaker have his way, yet again? He swallowed the anger, pushed it down, tried to hide it, though he was certain Prowl knew. It would not help, would it? Bluestreak was dead, his all knowing origin had not been as omnipotent as the young adult had always believed. Besides, Smokescreen could have gone and sprung his brother from Praxus, defied everyone and brought Bluestreak to Iacon himself. But he had been enjoying his reunion with Devcon, and Praxus had seemed safe. It should have been safe. If his originator had failed Blue, so had he, and that hurt far to much to consider right now.

 

“We should get to my ship, then Sir,” Devcon interjected, and to Smokescreen. “I’ll keep him in one piece.”

 

“I hope you find what you need, origin,” Smokescreen said, he opened his arms and let his originator go. “I’ll see you bots at Hound’s.”

 

He watched them leave from his seat on the floor. Watched the doorwings on his origin’s back hang limp and low as he let the hotel suite. Smokescreen did not move for breams after they had gone. Anger at his origin, hate at himself, they were clawing back up, making the grief that already consumed him that much blacker and bleaker. His helm dropped to his knees, as the tears streamed down his face. All the stellar-cycles, the vorns that he had lived in Iacon, the stellar-cycles he had served in detention, Smokescreen had never written to, or spoken to Bluestreak until the very last orn. Just as he had received letters from his origin, he had received letters from his brother, and of course he had read them, but he had never responded. For all those stellar-cycles Smokescreen had told himself that this was what his originator would have preferred, and that had given him the excuse to shy away from Blue, because addressing his guilt for what had happened had been too much much, and then the estrangement had just become a habit. A bad habit, and there was no way to make up for it now. It hurt, it hurt so much, and even though it felt like Blue was still there, Smokescreen knew there could be no way. There was nothing uncommon about bondshock, within the next orn at most the bond should snap, and Smokescreen could not say if he was anxious for it to come, or terrified that it would, when he could no longer cling to that small and desperate hope that Bluestreak lived.

 

Of course Smokescreen had not raised this with his origin, or even Devcon. He did not want either of them to look at him like he had lost his processor. But why did Origin need to go to Praxus? Why was he desperate? Was it possible that Prowl also felt it, also hoped and prayed that Blue was alive? Maybe? If there was even the faintest chance, Smokescreen knew damn well that his origin would go into the Pit to find his youngest creation. Prowl loved, had loved Bluestreak, there had never been any doubt of that. The thought stung, even after their reconciliation, and a bitterness that would probably never fade crept up to join the churning storm of emotions tearing at his spark. There had never been a doubt that Origin had loved Bluestreak, but Smokescreen could not say the same about himself. Sure, Origin had said it, had actually said it when they had spoken in the medbay but... But if his originator had been able to choose between which of creations would live, there was no chance he would ever choose Smokescreen, and who would have faulted him? Bluestreak had always been a sweet, dutiful creation, Smokescreen had always been anything but. Even when he had understood that his progenitor was a criminal, Smokescreen had sided with Barricade. No one in their right processor would choose Smokescreen over Bluestreak.

 

Feeling that much worse, and desperate for company, and comfort, the Praxian pushed himself up on his peds and headed for the door. Tears almost blinded him, but he pushed himself onward. He wished it was just a memory purge, that he would online next to Devcon and everything would be fine, but Smokescreen knew better. Millions were dead, millions... everyone but Origin. They had not deserved it, maybe Windbreaker, but not the rest of them, not even the cousins that had preferred to look down at Prowl instead of helping. Being afts did not warrant a death sentence. Barricade lived too, Smokescreen realized as he transformed and drove like the reckless fool he felt like for the boho district both Jazz and Hound resided in. That mech was probably laughing, toasting his luck, and probably Windbreaker for arranging his early release and subsequent exile, as if it had been some grand a favour, although it might have been. That familial bond was thoroughly weakened, even raw and open as the young mech’s spark was now, his bond to his progenitor was blocked off, as dead as it could be without a medic physically cutting it out. It was something Smokescreen had considered doing, just as he had considered cutting out the bond to his originator, but he had never done it. Now it was one of the only living bonds in the rookie’s spark, and the young mech felt sick at the thought.

 

Thankfully, Hound’s habsuite was not so far a drive from the hotel, and Smokescreen managed to make it there without crashing into anything important. He ran up the steps, brushed passed... someone, and stumbled. The floodgates had opened, and Smokescreen was almost certain the weight of everything would smother him. Servos were on him, and the young mech keened. It was a hideous and humiliating sound to his audials but that did not silence the cry. His whole frame shaking, and his struts buckling, Smokescreen tried to flinch away but impossibly large servos held his shoulders and guided him up the steps at a snails pace. With his vents hiccuping, the Praxian tried to clear his optics, to figure out his surroundings, and to get away, when he realized he had been nudged along to Hound’s very door. Confused, he cocked his helm up. A red visor, and black facemask looked down at him, and he relaxed his guard a little. Trailbreaker was in Tactics, and though Smokescreen did not actually know him at all, he was a friend of Hound’s and he had come by the office a couple of times to see Silverbolt and Hound when the Praxian had been there.

 

“I figured this was where you were headed,” the mech said in a voice that was oddly soft for a mech his size.

 

“I ran into you,” Smokescreen replied, dumbly.

 

“It’s all good,” Trailbreaker assured him. “Takes a lot more than that to even scuff my plating. Just a few more steps, Hound’s unlocked the door.”

 

Smokescreen did not last a few more steps. His legs gave way and he slowly started to sink to the floor. Trailbreaker did not let him though, and he was half carried, half dragged into Hound’s habsuite. The scout made a soft chirr at the sight of him, and help the far larger Tagonian bring Smokescreen over to his couch. Suddenly afraid of waking Silverbolt, of being a nuisance, the Praxian tried to mute his sobs but his vocalizer just kept hitching on and off. Hound made another soft sound and pulled Smokescreen into a hug. Desperately needing an anchor, the grieving mech clenched his servos around the edge of the green mech’s chassis armour, and cried, and cried. A field of comfort wrapped around him like a blanket and soothed over the self-hatred, and the guilt. It wrapped him up, washing over every millimetre of Smokescreen’s field and surrounded him in warmth. They stayed that way until the storm faded, for now, and the Praxian was finally able to life his helm, and speak.

 

“I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,” Smokescreen explained, voice hoarse for his crying and keening. “Dev took Origin to Praxus. I thought I’d be okay. I wasn’t.”

 

“I don’t mind you coming,” Hound said. “Not even a little. But why did Devcon take Prowl to Praxus?”

 

“Optimus and Jazz nixed Origin going,” the young mech explained. “Except he needed to go, and he asked me if I knew a mech that could get him there, and I know plenty but Devcon’s the only one I really trust, trust with him. I didn’t want him to get himself slagged.”

 

“Of course not,” the new originator replied. There was a clink, and then another from their right and Hound looked up. “Thanks ‘Breaker.”

 

“No worries,” he replied. “I’m heading back to base. I’m sorry for your loss, Smokescreen.”

 

“Thanks,” Smokescreen said. He followed Hound’s look and saw two cubes of energon. His tank clenched, and the he realized he was running on empty. “Sorry for running into you... and freaking out.”

 

“You were entitled,” Trailbreaker brushed off the apology, and Smokescreen sagged down a little. “Take care of your rookie Hound, but I know you will.”

 

Trailbreaker left without another glyph, and a new wave of guilt welled up. Hound’s field brushed over it, eased it a little and Smokescreen finally felt strong enough to sit up right. He took the cube he was offered and sipped at it. It was a plain mid grade, free of any additives at all, and blessedly easy on his uneasy tank. The grieving mech did not think he would be able to finish it at first but before long he had taken the last sip. Though his tank rolled a little uneasily, it held, and Smokescreen’s fuel levels stabilized. Origin would need to fuel soon, though he probably would not notice for a while. Smokescreen had not thought to tell Devcon to take any cubes, had not thought of them being in Praxus for any length of time, but really it was probably going to be joors. Hopefully someone would think to give Prowl a cube. Hopefully they left him alone. Hopefully Optimus did not come down on him for disobeying. Who was he, who was Jazz to say what Smokescreen’s originator needed anyways? If he said he needed to go to Praxus, he did, Prowl was not a self-indulgent mech, and he would not go... would not go the site of their murdered city for his own entertainment. No he would only go because he needed to.

 

“Thanks Hound,” he said once he had finished his cube. “I figured my friends would... I don’t know talk, want me to talk, and I just... I don’t want to. I don’t want to pretend I’m even a little okay.”

 

“I’m glad you came, Smokey,” Hound replied. “I’m glad you didn’t wait it out alone. You don’t have to talk, not even a little. I can put on some music, and we can just sit here. But I want you to know one thing, there was nothing you could have done, no way you could have known. That doesn’t make it easier, not even a little, but it’s the truth, just remember that.”

 

He nodded, mutely. Eventually he might see the truth in Hound’s glyphs, but for now with the endless sorrow fueling all his worst emotions, it was impossible to reason with the guilt and hate rolling in his spark. Still, Smokescreen tried to listen to Hound. The Decepticons had done this. Not him, not his origin. Hate them, hate them with every component in your frame. Jazz would find out why, and how, would take revenge, if there was any to be had. It would never happen to another city, Jazz would see to it, Origin would see to it. Smokescreen had to believe that, he had to believe that Praxus would not be the first of many states to be wiped out. If he believe anything else, the young Praxian doubted he would have the spark to survive. Origin would not let it happen again, if there was anyway, anything that could be done to prevent it, he would find it; Smokescreen clung to this thought. He desperately had to believe that this could never happen again. But a part of him feared that Praxus was only the beginning.

 

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:  
> Nanoklik: second  
> Klik: minute  
> Bream: 8 kliks  
> Joor: Hour, 10 breams  
> Mega-cycle: Day/20 joor  
> Orn: Week/9 mega-cycles  
> Decaorn: 10 orn  
> Quartex: Month, 5 orn, 45 mega-cycle  
> Stellar-cycle: Year/450 mega-cycles/10 quartexes  
> Vorn: 83 stellar-cycles  
> Comm speak -"  
> Normal speak "  
> Bond speak “italics”  
> ATS: Advanced Tactical Systems  
> Originator: “mother”, carrier  
> Progenitor: “father”, sire  
> Procreator: parent  
> Contributive spark: spark better suited to “fathering” a creations  
> Receptive spark: spark more likely to conceive creations.  
> To kindle, to spark, to bud: to conceive  
> Emergence: birth  
> X-frame: biracial transformer (refers to transformers who appear neither predominately one or the other of their procreator’s frametype)  
> Apterium: Structure of lower doorwing joint  
> Months  
> Primarii  
> Solomnii  
> Kinserii  
> Theomachius  
> Epistii  
> Sigmus  
> Adaptii  
> Aureas  
> Coventus  
> Mortius

“Slag-sucking son of a scrapheap,” Mirage cursed in a mixture of an obscure dialect of Primal Vernacular, and lower Kaonite.

 

He had only been in the air a bream when the comm had crackled with Soundwave’s less than even voice calling all available Seeker units to ground any fliers or transports travelling within Polihexian airspace. In the very next instant, the smoking ruin of Darkmount at his back, the Towers mech knew he needed to get to the ground before some Seeker took him out. Digits flying across the controls, he shifted the nose of his pilfered craft down, and looked for a place to land. Just as his optics caught sight of a semi clear space just at the edge of the Dead End, laser fire scorched the craft. He cursed colourfully, and did his best to dodge the strafing fire, but even a speedy little craft like the one he had stolen was no match for Seekers, and he could see on his display that his attackers were exactly that. Recognition struck the noblemech and his optics dropped to his cameras. Black and purple, blue and white, he knew exactly who these two were. That nanoklik’s distraction was all it took, a sonic boom hit his craft. Alarms sounded as the little plane shook violently. The engines began to flame out, and Mirage reached across the controls to shut them down before the fire could spread, and engulf everything. Even has he reached, laser fire raked across the side of his stricken plane, piercing the outer plating. Pain burnt alone Mirage’s side. He could not spare the attention to look down.

 

Gritting his denta, the spy fought the lifeless controls. He was not just flying a plane without engines, but with that last round of laser fire, he had lost hydraulics. As he pulled at the controls, the spy realized, with real horror, that he was in a flat spin. If he could not recover some control, he was a dead mech. But the controls were unresponsive, and though Mirage knew what was necessary to forced himself out of the spin, without control, it was hopeless. Something sparked behind him, and Mirage hissed. Of course the hunk of scraps was on fire. With the ground coming up too fast, with no time left to think, the Towers mech manual lowered the transport’s landing gear. It was enough to bring the craft off balance, and out of the spin. Fire growing at his back, and the ground coming up fast the only thing Mirage had time to do was brace himself for a painful death.

 

Not even a nanoklik later, he hit the ground. The craft bounced, and the landing gear collapsed, it seemed as if the transport exploded around the hapless pilot. Through it all, Mirage’s restraints held. Finally, the craft skidded to a halt, in several more pieces than it had taken off in. Side screaming in agony, he pulled on his restraints, but they did not give. Time was not something the Towers mech had to waste, the scent of burning fuel was growing, and so without hesitation, Mirage pulled a stiletto blade from his subspace and cut himself free. As something hot and wet dripped from his side, the spy reached into his subspace and slapped a wide, adhesive field dressing to his wound, and pushed to his peds. The world spun, but Mirage fought passed his disorientation, and made his way to the door. Though the aft end of the transport was several metres further back, the chasm at the back of the fuselage opened into fire. Mirage thought better than leaping into flames and forced cockpit’s emergency exit, in the form of narrow window. He slithered out, wondering how exactly a warbuild would have been expected to get out that window, and dropped none top elegantly to the ground. Mirage took a single, centring vent, and was promptly shot, again.

 

Pain burst through his censor net as this blaster fire struck him high on the shoulder. Without hesitating, Mirage activated his survival protocols and disappeared. Slowed by the wound to his side, but not crippled, the spy ran. In his HUD Mirage saw his damage report, saw the rate at which he was losing mechfluid and cursed in his helm. Blaster fire roared passed his helm, and the Towers mech looked down. He was leaving a trail of mechfluid. What good was it to be invisible if you left a fragging trail? Reaching into his subspace again Mirage slapped another fielding dressing on his side, and yet another on the fresh wound on his shoulder, and darted to the left. There was no using his shoulder rocked, the mound was gone thanks to Skywarp’s lucky shot.

 

Despite the dire situation, Mirage did not draw his blaster. Against one mech, he would not have hesitated to use it, but against two, it was tantamount to suicide. The muzzle flash would reveal his location, and even if he shot one of the flying defects, the other would slag him in the next sparkbeat. Those Seekers were on the ground now, hunting him through the debris. He might have run, and it might have been the right answer, there were a lot of places to hide in the rubble that made up the Dead End, but until they had him, or his frame, he knew these two would not stop hunting for him, and Mirage refused to be hunted down like a turbofox. Rather than run, he inched closer, stiletto in the servo of his good arm. Good was relative, he thought with dentas clenched. While his right arm was barely mobile, its rocket launcher slagged, his whole left side was tight and sluggish from the would at his side.

 

He was slow, but he was invisible, Mirage gave himself fifty-fifty chance of surviving the mega-cycle. The Towers mech did not even ventilate as he inched forward. His ped steps were silent, thanks to vorns of training and a special tread engineered in the Crystal City. Only three steps from Thundercracker’s back, he heard a snarled warning. Mirage did not need to wonder why. His survival programming had begun to divert energy from auxiliary systems to keep his essential components online. Despite what the noblemech thought, his electro disruptor was not coded as an essential component, once again he was visible. He had only a split nanoklik to manually reactivate his mode and side step as the blue Seeker turned, and the purple one disappeared.

 

Skywarp reappeared, and shouted with surprise as Mirage was gone. He had not gone far and the spy watched Thundercracker’s shocked expression morph into one of horror as Skywarp felt forward into his arms, mechfluid bubbling up in his throat. Mirage wrenched his stiletto up as he stabbed through the Seeker’s wing and chassis, and then out. Handicapped by his own damage, and the height difference, he had missed. The Towers mech had intended to slice Skywarp’s spark, instead he had only clipped the chamber. But he had severed vital energon lines, and destroyed the mech’s air intake system. Thundercracker made an inarticulate sound as his Conjunx Endura collapsed in his arms, the purple Seeker’s intakes quickly filled with mechfluid. It was not automatically a fatal wound, Mirage realized, if the Seeker was seen by a medic in the next bream, he might actually survive.

 

“I’ll kill you!” Thundercracker roared as the spy’s mod failed again.

 

“You might, but I won’t make it easy,” Mirage replied, holding the distressed Seeker’s optics. “He has a bream at most. If you want him to live, you better get flying.”

 

Thundercracker looked down at his mate, by the time he looked up again, Mirage had managed to get his electro disruptor going again, and he knew this would be for the last time. He staggered away, to hide in the shadows, the streets of the Dead End illuminated only by the flames that had consumed his stolen plane. The Towers mech crouched low, praying to gods he did not believe in that the Seeker would fly. He vented a harsh sigh of relief when Thundercracker cradled Skywarp in his arms and flew for the ruins of Darkmount. Maybe the Decepticon medics were all buried in the rubble, maybe that purple cogsucker would leak out, Mirage could only hope. Though he had survived this run in, Thundercracker would be reporting his presence, and his escape, if not know than in a matter of nanokliks, the spy had to move.

 

There was a whisper of guilt in Mirage’s spark, not as strong as the satisfaction. Hound loved these slagtards, still loved them despite their betrayals, and if Skywarp died at the Towers mech’s servo, he knew his brother in all but spark and code would be hurt. Mostly, Mirage hoped the mech went to the Unmaker, but that small whisper hoped the fragger lived. But there was not time to introspection. Other Decepticons would be there at any nanoklik, and Mirage needed to hide. The only thing that would buy him any time was the chaos in the burning stronghold, still he had not even a nanoklik to waste. Mirage placed his left servo against the wall, and froze. He pulled his servo away from the wall, and stared back and forth from the wet purple servo print and the mechfluid on his servo.

 

His frame shook and his survival programs began to fail, and suddenly he felt tremendous pain radiating all through his chassis. His right arm was mostly numb, the pain dull compared to the agony that radiated from his left side. Processing power dimmed from mechfluid loss, Mirage brushed the soaked through dressing from his side and looked down for the first time since he had been shot. It was far worse than the graze he had thought it had been. There was a gaping wound just a servo’s width above his hip, the wound itself was the size of his fist. Mechfluid, a mixture of energon and coolant spurted from his abdomen. Finally understanding the depths of his damage, Mirage, arm shaking from fear or shock, reached into his subspace for his medkit. The only way he would live was if he cauterized the worse of it, and dropped into stasis. All thoughts of dropping down into the sewers were gone, there was no way Mirage could make it out of Polihex on his own.

 

Staggering to his peds, the Towers mech covered the massive wound with multiple dressing and limped and swayed through the rubble strew road. He was not far from Ratchet’s clinic, and that was no accident. Jazz had destroyed it, or at least attempted to.Mirage was forced to pray that for once the saboteur had failed. This time, his prayers were not answered, as he turned the corner he saw the collapsed roof, and crumbled walls. Still, it had held better than most buildings had faced with Jazz’s peculiar skill set, but then then Polihexian had not had a lot of time to plant his bombs. It was clear someone, like Turmoils crew had entered the rubble, someone had smashed a hole wide enough for a mech that speedster’s size to enter. There was no one there now, though that might not hold true for much longer. They could yet return. All of his instincts told Mirage not to crawl into the ruined building, it looked horribly unstable, and horribly unsafe, but like a wounded turbofox, the Towers mech was compelled to go inside, to hide in a makeshift den. With the destruction of Darkmount, communication had been restored, and pressing himself back against the rubble farthest from the crude opening, Mirage activated his long distance comms. He did not waste a nanoklik considering who he really ought to call, and with another plea to fickle gods on his lipplates, he commed Jazz.

 

 

-“Jazz... Mirage to Jazz.”

 

-“Where the frag are ya, ‘Raj?” Jazz demanded. The Towers mech dimmed his optics. Primus fragging damn it, he had no energy to deal an angry Jazz.

 

-“Polihex,” the spy replied. He wasted no ventilations on explanations, he needed to deal with his wound, but he needed to deal with this first. “Get me out of here, Jazz.”

 

-“They destroyed Praxus!” The Polihexian snarled through the comm. “How? What the frag happened.”

 

-“I couldn’t get close...” Mirage explained, terse and tired. “The weapon’s destroyed, and Darkmount. Get me the frag out of here, Jazz.”

 

He did not hear the other mech’s reply as his comms failed. Time was out, the noblemech had lost far too much energon. Even now it may have been too late for him, and there was a voice in Mirage’s processor that told him to just lay down, and accept his end. But he was far to stubborn a mech to lay down and die, and struggling against energon loss and stasis protocols, Mirage rooted through his medkit and found the small medical torch from his medkit. Sucking in a deep, ragged vent, he lit the flame, and pushed in into his side. A hideous cry broke from his vocalizer, and Mirage felt himself falling forward. There was nothing left in him, and the spy could not reach out his servos to stop his fall. Mirage did not feel his face hit the rubble; he felt nothing at all.

 

***

 

Guilt and anguish churned through Prowl’s spark. His brittle control had collapsed, and sitting in the chair behind Devcon, he knew his field was not the still pond he always intended it to be. He pulled it in, as tight as he could, wore his pain like a cocoon or blanket, and suffered. Prowl knew there was nothing in Praxus, nothing he wanted to see, nothing he wanted to hear or to smell. Both in his spark, and in his processor, he knew he would not find Bluestreak there, and that knowledge destroyed him. As Devcon flew for the tactician’s devastated home, Prowl waited for the bond to snap. But as much as he knew, as much as his spark knew he would not find Bluestreak in ruins, the bond remained. Unconsciously, he brushed against it and immediately recoiled both mentally and physically. It was pain, nothing but pain. A whimper lodged in his vocalizer, but only rough ventilation was voiced.

 

“I’m sorry,” Devcon said, after nothing but silence for a joor. “Really, sorry...”

 

“Thank you,” Prowl replied, his voice more raw than he thought he had heard it in some time. “You... had no family left in Praxus?”

 

“No...” the bounty hunter confirmed. “No... it’s just been me for a while.”

 

“You did well for yourself,” the Praxian said. He did not know why he was speaking, maybe because it allowed him to hide from his own thoughts. “Given your upbringing.”

 

“I kinda wondered if you knew,” Devcon replied, and he glanced back. “But I never got locked up so I thought you must not’ve.”

 

“I arrested your progenitor after he was caught taking a bounty in Praxus,” Prowl revealed. “I never found evidence of you committing that or any other crime on Praxian soil. There was nothing to arrest you for. I looked.”

 

“You could’ve come up with something,” the Altihexian said. “No one would have questioned you.”

 

“You are correct,” the tactician replied. “They would have been wrong not to, but I would not have been questioned. Jailing a mech on false charges is a line I have never crossed. I did not for Barricade, how could I reason doing so with you? I will not deny the temptation was there, but the more time Smokescreen spent with you, the less he spent with his progenitor. I concluded that this was the lesser of evils.”

 

“Not a ringing endorsement,” Devcon said. “But thanks.”

 

“You do not need my blessing to be with him,” Prowl replied, a warning seeped into his field, mingling with the grief he could no longer suppress at all. “I do not know if he will even want it. You do, however have it, for all that it is worth. But if you hurt him intentionally I will kill you.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” the bounty hunter said. Prowl sagged back in his chair. If Devcon, if anyone hurt Smokescreen, he would kill them, whatever the punishment, or cost. He had nothing left to lose.

Perhaps due to Jazz’s stamp of approval on Devcon, perhaps because any Autobot or Neutral craft was assumed to be a search and recovery team, the bounty hunter faced to questioning as he came into land on the makeshift landing strip the first team of responders had cleared. Prowl did not wait for Devcon to turn off the engine, the Praxian stood from his seat, and moved for the exit. He ought to have thanked the mech for risking the ire of the Special Operations’ commander for him, but Prowl did not even think of it. Instead he pushed out the door, and forward. They were kilometres below the surface of Cybertron. What had been Praxus was a jagged pit in the side of the planet. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed, and Prowl knew his doorwings would not go unnoticed but he did not care.

 

He made no attempt to find Optimus or Jazz, or to announce or explain his presence at all. Instead he turned away from the command tent in the distance, and walked. It was a relief when Devcon did not follow. No one followed as Prowl walked deeper into the ruins. They were about the level of the sewer now, except the sewers had largely collapsed under the force of the missile blasts. They would find bodies, not many but some. There were few structures recognizable as buildings, most of rubble were from the underground structures, and the very terrain of Praxus. Unbidden, his processor superimposed images of Praxus that was over the ruins. Sharp, uneven metal boulders and pipes lay in his way. Prowl did not pause to consider the dangers of going further. He climbed.

 

“I am sorry,” Prowl whispered into the aching silence. “I did not know... Had I known...”

 

Someone had taken down the dome. It was unlikely he would ever know who, never know what had motivated him or her. The likeliest motive would have been survival. If a Decepticon had held a blaster to most any Enforcer or guard’s helm, they would have done as ordered, to save themselves, to save their colleagues. They could never have known what the Decepticons had intended for them. At most they would have thought an invasion was coming, they would have believed the Autobots would come to the rescue, given time. There was no way any Praxian could have known what was coming. Unfortunately, that knowledge brought Prowl no comfort. What would he have done in the same setting, would he have taken down the dome? If a blaster had been held to his helm, to Bluestreak’s helm would he have taken down the dome? Yes? No?

 

A ping in his HUD told him he had arrived. Looking into the chasm, Prowl’s legs collapsed beneath him and he fell gracelessly onto the warped substructure laid bare by the lasers’ strike. Something caught his optics, a sparkle amongst the dust and debris. On servos and knees, he crawled over the wreckage, ignoring the pain in his knees and legs as the shredded metal dug into his plating. From the dirt and dust, he found it, not even the length of his smallest digit, the sliver of blue crystal caught the light. Prowl cupped his servo over the shard and bowed his helm. This tiny shard was all that was left.

He dropped his helm to his knees. His plating clattered, and his doorwings fluttered erratically, but his cheekplates remained dry. Disgust and guilt rose up and strangled his processor and his spark.

 

“Where are we,” Jazz asked, soft and soothing as he carefully lowered himself next to Prowl. Even in the uneven terrain, the Polihexian walked silently. That should not have mattered, the tactician should have seen him coming.

 

“These are the coordinates of my ziggurat,” Prowl replied, voice flat. He waited for a rebuke, but Jazz only sighed.

 

“’M sorry for tryin’ to tell ya what was best for ya,” the saboteur said. “I oughta have listen to ya.”

 

“I hoped it might help,” the Praxian explained. It had not helped. His doorwings dipped low, as low as they could, and Jazz rubbed his back in soft, soothing circles. Prowl did not deserve the proffered comfort.

 

“What’s this?” Jazz asked, his field brushing Prowl’s, enveloping it. It did not shy from the self-loathing. “Ya couldn’ta prevented this Prowl. We didn’t know. Ya couldn’tve.”

 

“I am faulty,” Prowl said.

 

“I don’t understand,” the Polihexian replied. At first, Prowl did not answer, he kept his helm bowed to his knees. Jazz spoke again. “Talk to me, Prowl, please. Let me help ya.”

 

“I am flawed, faulty, defective, glitched,” the tactician said, cursing himself as he did. “I cannot cry for my own creation. I have no tears. I am nothing but drone.”

 

“Shh,” Jazz soothed. He drew Prowl into him, not up, but into his lap. The Polihexian stroked his helm, and shoulders. At first, Prowl tensed, but slowly he sagged. “It’ll come. Y’re in shock, Prowl. Primus, ya been hit by a blow no one’s ever faced before. It’s a fraggin’ miracle y’re alive.”

 

“I do not want to be,” Prowl the glyphs tumbling out of his vocalizer without his conscious intent. His plating clattered as Jazz continued to stroke his helm and back.

 

“I know,” the saboteur replied. The lack of judgment, the understanding that soothed over his field was comforting, but it was not enough.

 

“It hurts to ventilate,” the Praxian said. “Everything hurts. My spark feels like it is going to rip apart. I would welcome it. I do not know how to face this. It bubbles up, boils over and I crash. I keep on crashing.”

 

“Ratchet’s got yer ATS on lockdown?” Jazz asked.

 

“I do not want to feel,” Prowl replied. Truthfully, he did not really know how to feel at the best of time? This? This he felt certain would destroy him. “I do not want to feel. I do not know how to feel like this.”

 

“I’ve got ya,” the Polihexian soothed. “No matter what, whatever ya need.”

 

Prowl did not know what he needed. That was not entirely true, he needed Bluestreak, but his youngling was lost. It was so unfathomable, maybe that was why his spark was whole, maybe because his processor could not comprehend the hideous reality. It was too much effort to raise his helm, so the devastated originator lay curled in the rumble, his helm on Jazz’s lap. He did not cry, but he did grieve. Across the planet, Prowl felt Smokescreen’s pain, and it added a layer of agony over his own spark. Through the agony, the question repeated, who had taken down the dome? How had the Decepticons infiltrated Enforcer command with no alarm raised. When he had been Praefectus Vigilum they had done drills to prepare for such an incursion, all for not. Why? Why had that training failed?

 

Across the planet, Smokescreen’s spark cried out a little louder, and slowly Prowl lifted his helm. If he was here, so was Devcon, and Smokescreen needed his sweetspark. This self-indulgence had to end, even if the originator was not ready for it to. He had to move, not move on, that might never be possible, but he had to move, there was nothing else. Jazz looked down at him, mouth turned down, an expression of grief. Prowl offlined his optics. How was Cybertron still spinning? How did life go on when his creation, when his framekin had all been murdered? Perhaps because that was what Cybertron did. In war and chaos it continued on, and it would do so even after Autobots and Decepticons wiped each other out. Just orns ago, Prowl had left Praxus, thinking he could turn the tide, turn the world on its axis, and in the rubble of his home, in the spot where his youngling had been murdered, the tactician doubted if there was anything he could do, if there was even any point of trying.

 

“I’ll find out why,” Jazz promised. “I’ll find out who.”

 

A bubble of hope rose up in his spark, and lit a flame of conviction. Prowl believed, he believed Jazz would, and believed he could. He could not bring back Bluestreak, but he could bring him, bring Smokescreen a measure of justice. That was all there was left, it would have to be enough. His companion hugged him, spark to spark and Prowl clung to him, the pulse of the other’s spark brought his to a stable rhythm. After another bream, Jazz helped him to his peds. In his spark, the originator felt his surviving creation’s pain. There was nothing left in Praxus, no comfort, no relief, he had to return Devcon to Smokescreen, and bring his processor to order. Until the grief killed him, Prowl had work to do.

 

“I’ll take care o’ this,” the saboteur promised again. “Let Devcon take ya ho… to Iacon.”

 

“I will,” Prowl said. “There is nothing left for me here.”

 

“Will ya be okay?” Jazz asked. “Or did ya need me back with ya?”

 

“I will not be okay,” the Praxian confessed. “Not for some time to come, but I will manage. I want your servos on this. You are the mech I trust.”

 

“I won’t let ya down,” the Polihexian said.

 

Prowl’s joints ached as he climbed through the ruins, Jazz at his side. Even after one crash, rest was warranted to allow his frame to recover after the spasms, after two crashes rest would have normally been imperative, even to him. Over the course of his hike through the ruins, and suffering vigil the blocker Smokescreen had given him had worn off. The tactician had been deaf to the aches of his frame, during the hike, which all told were insignificant compared to the ache in his spark, and he was paying for it now. He almost lost his peds when they hit the clearing the Autobots had made, but was saved as Jazz caught him, an arm around his waist. The Polihexian looked down at him, concern on his faceplates, Prowl only shook his helm.

 

“Crashes affect my joints,” he explained. “When the coolant from my extremities is rerouted to my processor to prevent damage. I need to rest.”

 

“Will ya?” Jazz asked, the unvoiced question: can you, hung in the air.

 

“I do not believe recharge will be possible, but I will rest my frame,” Prowl replied. “It will not give me another option.”

 

In the near distance, Devcon approached, he was not alone. Optimus Prime walked beside the bounty hunter, and Prowl could not stop himself from flinching at the sight of the Prime. Jazz held him tighter, tilted his helm up and watched the approach of their commander. Defiance came easy to the Polihexian, though it was something of a surprise to Prowl to see it so blatant in the face of Optimus Prime. The tactician raised his helm, but had no strength to raise his doorwing to even the weakest salute. He was prepared for a rebuke, even as Jazz looked ready to argue it. But as he came closer, Prowl saw the expression on the Prime’s face. There was no rebuke there, and no anger, just grief, and maybe guilt. Against his side, the saboteur relaxed, but he did not let go of Prowl, which was fortunate, because he was not sure he could keep his peds with that support.

 

“I am sorry, Prowl,” Optimus Prime said. “For imposing on you.”

 

“I needed to come,” Prowl replied, softly. “I needed to see.”

 

“I understand,” the Matrix-Bearer said. “Will you leave Praxus in my servos now?”

 

“Yes,” the Praxian replied. “I trust you. I trust Jazz.”

 

“I’ll take care of him,” Devcon promised. He took Prowl’s arm and brought it over his shoulder before putting his own around the Praxian’s waist as Jazz stepped aside.

 

“Make sure ya do,” Jazz said.

 

Prowl did not resist Devcon’s support. He let himself be guided to the bounty hunter’s craft. It did not matter that Autobots were watching, the Praxian barely noticed. Their faceplates were a blur in his peripheral vision, and they did not matter. Devcon did not release him until they were at Prowl’s seat, and the moment the younger mech let go, the tactician dropped strutlessly into the seat. His creation’s lover did not immediately take his own seat, he stood at Prowl’s side, looking uncertain. After a few nanokliks he stepped away, but still did not go to his seat. When he came back, there was a cube in his servos and he pushed it into Prowl’s. For a long klik, the older mech stared at the proffered energon, and the question came to his helm, when had he last fueled?

 

“You outta drink a little,” Devcon said, sounding uneasy. “Did you get hurt out there? Do you need a medic.”

 

“I am not hurt,” Prowl replied. “The blocker wore off.”

 

“Should I take you to your place?” The bounty hunter asked. “Or my hotel.”

 

“My habsuite,” the Praxian replied. “I will not intrude.”

 

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Devcon said.

 

“It is all I have ever done,” Prowl countered, a slow shake of his helm. Holding the cube in both servos, he drank. It was a wonder his servos did not shake.

 

“If he needs you, will you come?” the young mech asked.

 

“Of course,” the originator replied.

 

“Your place then,” Devcon said.

 

He took his seat at the controls and in under a bream they were in the air. Smokescreen would not be comfortable with him there. With his originator, Smokescreen would be uncertain, too concerned with Prowl’s health to focus on his own grief. Devcon would be able to support him best in these early joors, as separate from them, Prowl found a way to if not overcome, function through this devastation. There was the very real temptation circling through the tactician’s helm to hack the medical blocks, and to bury his grief so deep he would never feel it, or anything else again. It would be so easy, in fact he had already written the code that would set him free. But he could not use it, and it was not the wrath of Ratchet Prowl feared, but that of Smokescreen. Smokescreen deserved better from him. Every component in his frame aching in time with his spark, the bereft mech let his helm fall back again the head rest of his seat. He did not recharge, instead he thought, not of Bluestreak, he could not think of his second emerged without falling apart, but he thought of Praxus, thought of the dome, because it was not just a question as to who and how the dome had been deactivated but who had let them through the gates, who had lit the fuse to Praxus’ destruction?

 

Barricade?

 

“I hailed a transport,” Devcon announced, pulling Prowl out of his analysis. They had landed, and he had not noticed. “Thought better of you driving...”

 

“Transforming would be difficult at the moment, that was wise,” Prowl said.

 

“We can wait here,” the bountyhunter suggested, standing up from his seat. “Here, I’ll help you.”

 

“Thank you,” the Praxian replied. “You can leave me, and go to Smokescreen.”

 

“He’ll be fragged off if he found out,” Devcon said. “And he’d find out.”

 

The flight had given Prowl’s tortured joints time to rest again, and while he was still hurting all over, his struts were not so weak, and he no longer felt as though he might fall on his faceplates if he stepped wrong. Still, he did not shrug of Devcon’s supporting servo on his elbow as they walked from his small craft, and onto the runway at the Autobot base, Prowl looked around, dully. He had thought they would land in the suburban Hub where Devcon had been forced to land before, but the bounty hunter had received clearance, from Jazz? From the Prime? Did it matter? It really did not. Prowl expected to wait for some time for the transport, it would need to be cleared. Security at the base had been drawn tighter than even that of Iacon as a whole. Really, it should have pleased him to see them respond to the severity of the situation with appropriate zeal, but it was not in him to care. At his arm, Devcon straightened, and in his field came a wave of frustration and dread. It stirred Prowl enough to raise his helm, as he gathered his resources to deal whatever trouble was coming.

 

“That ain’t… umm… isn’t a transport,” Devcon grumble low. No, the Convoy approaching was not a transport. The mech had attended Prowl’s shooting test, he was commander of the Primal Vanguards

 

“Commander Prowl,” Delta Magnus said, remaining in his vehicle mode. “Optimus Prime directed me to take you wherever you needed to go from here.”

 

“Thank you for your assistance,” Prowl said. “Devcon, you can go to Smokescreen.”

 

“No, he really will slag me if I don’t see you home,” the young mech replied. “I’ll follow along.”

 

“No need,” the Convoy interjected. “My trailer will fit you both, and a dozen more easily. Climb aboard.”

 

Devcon gave Delta Magnus the coordinates of Prowl’s habsuite. It did not bother the Praxian that the mech knew its location. He must have gone there with Smokescreen, which meant Smokescreen had been there at all, which was good. His surviving creation would not be there, as he had said, it was where Bluestreak had been meant to be. Obviously it was too painful for Smokescreen had this given instant to walk passed the berthroom that should have been his brother’s. There were so many what ifs circling the tactician’s processor. What if he had not been injured, what if he had flown to Praxus despite medical orders, what if he had set Smokescreen to collect Bluestreak. Prowl found it impossible to stop this line of thinking, though he knew he had to if he wanted to remain sane. Neither Delta Magnus, nor Devcon tried to make conversation, and the drive to the Academy District was done in silence. That was good, because Prowl did not believe he could hold a conversation. What if? What if?

 

The Convoy left them on the sidewalk. Prowl looked up at the tenement and his legs buckled. There was the waterfall that had influenced his decision to purchase this habsuite. He had thought… he had thought Bluestreak would enjoy it. How could he live here? Not just this habsuite but in Iacon? How could he pass on the places he had thought to take Bluestreak and not go mad? His helm throbbed as his processor overheated for the umpteenth time that mega-cycle. Umpteenth… what an exact measure, clearly Prowl’s mental faculties were failing him. A servo on the back of his neck guided his helm to his knees, and he did not resist. As his helm touched the cool plating of his legs, Prowl regained some equilibrium, and overrode the shutdown commands as they flashed across his HUD. Slowly, slowly the threat of crashing faded and Prowl raised his helm.

 

“Are you okay?” Devcon asked, hesitant.

 

“I am functional,” Prowl replied. It was a none answer, but it was truthful enough. His vision cleared, and the pinch in his helm subsided completely. “I would like to get out of the street.”

 

“I’ll help,” the young Altihexian said, and he pulled the elder mech upright.

 

Prowl managed to stay upright without too much assistance and they moved quickly to entered the complex’s lobby. At no point did Devcon let go of his arm. Not when he could see the Praxian was keeping his peds, not when they entered the elevator, and not even as they walked to the door to Prowl’s habsuite. Before he had to think where he would go, what room he would collapse in, Devcon steered him into his greet room and deposited him on he Praxian style lounge. He sagged into it, drew his legs up and bowed his helm. To his surprise, the bounty hunter did not immediately leave. Instead, Devcon hovered over him, not taking his own seat, not speaking. The young mech stood, silently fretting for a bream at least before stepping away, only going so far as the kitchen, and only for long enough to get another cube read. Prowl curled his servos into fists on his legs. There was no way he could fuel, the Praxian was certain he would purge, but he did not need to refuse it, Devcon put it on the table in front of the lounge.

 

“For later,” he said. “I’m not sure I should leave you.

 

“I would prefer that you did,” Prowl replied. “Smokescreen needs you.”

 

“What do you need?” Devcon asked. “Anything I can bring you?”

 

“I do not know what I need,” the tactician admitted. “I thought I might find it in Praxus. I was wrong. Go to Smokescreen. I need… I need… I need to process this.”

 

“Comm if you need anything,” the Altihexian ordered. “Or you know you’ll have Pit to pay.”

 

“Yes,” Prowl said.

 

When Devcon had gone, he reached for the holo-imager he had set on the table when he had been fussing about the habsuite. Nesting, Prowl thought bitterly. He had been nesting, preparing the habsuite for his youngling. His youngling would never be coming. Prowl hugged the imager to his chassis, and staggered to his peds. Stumbling a little, almost as though he was overcharged, the originator walked to the room that would have been Bluestreak’s. There was the berth, perfectly made, the desk in the window. It was ready for the youngling, but the youngling would never use it. Prowl collapsed. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around the imager, intent on protecting it, and did nothing to cushion his fall. A jolt of pain erupted from his shoulder, and helm as he struck the floor. Slowly, he uncurled from the imager. Without sitting up, Prowl held it in front of his face and turned it on. Bluestreak and Smokescreen projected from it, one of the last pictures taken of them together. He dragged himself up, dragged himself over to the wall, and sat up, sat with his back against the smooth surface. Casually, he brushed his digits against his helm and shoulder, a couple of small dents, nothing of significance, just another layer of pain to add to those already at home in his every joint, and the agony in his spark. Just a couple more dents, what did they matter? Slowly, he unfurled his servo from around the crystal shard he had taken from Praxus, and clutching it, and the imager in his servos, he drew knees to his chassis, and he grieved.

 

End Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating this, I actually forgot I had this ready. My bad. 
> 
> I have a hoard of ficlets I dabble at posted to my Tumblr if you'd like an even more random dose of my work. https://anon-e-miss.tumblr.com


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